The Project Gutenberg EBook of Children's Literature, by
Charles Madison Curry and Erle Elsworth Clippinger
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Title: Children's Literature
A Textbook of Sources for Teachers and Teacher-Training Classes
Author: Charles Madison Curry
Erle Elsworth Clippinger
Release Date: May 20, 2008 [EBook #25545]
Language: English
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When all the novelists and spinners of elaborate fictions have
been read and judged, we shall find that the peasant and the nurse
are still unsurpassed as mere narrators. They are the guardians of
that treasury of legend which comes to us from the very childhood
of nations; they and their tales are the abstract and brief chronicles,
not of an age merely, but of the whole race of man. It is theirs to
keep alive the great art of telling stories as a thing wholly apart
from and independent of the art of writing stories, and to pass on
their art to children and to children's children. They abide in a
realm of their own, in blessed isolation from that world of professional
authors and their milk-and-water books "for children."

CHILDREN'S LITERATURE

SECTION I. PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION

THE PREFACE

This book is primarily a handbook for teachers in the grades and for students
preparing to teach in the grades. Although it does not ignore problems of grading
and presentation, the chief purpose is to acquaint teachers and prospective teachers
with standard literature of the various kinds suitable for use in the classroom and
to give them information regarding books and authors to aid them in directing the
selection of books by and for children.

In discussing the early training of children in literature with large classes of young
people preparing for teaching in the grades, the compilers found themselves face to
face with two difficulties. In the first place, only a limited number of these prospective
teachers were in any real sense acquainted with what may be called the basic
traditional material. Rhymes, fables, myths, stories were so vaguely and indistinctly
held in mind that they were practically of no great value. It was therefore not
possible to assume much real acquaintance with the material needed for use with
children, and the securing of such an acquaintance seemed the first essential. After
all is said, a discussion of ways and means must follow such a mastery of basic material.

In the second place, there was the difficulty of finding in any compact form a
body of material sufficient in extent and wide enough in its range to serve as a satisfactory
basis for such a course. No doubt the ideal way would be to send the student
to the many authoritative volumes covering the various fields dealt with in this
collection. But with large classes and a limited amount of time such a plan was
hardly practicable. The young teacher cannot be much of a specialist in any of the
various fields of knowledge with the elements of which he is expected to acquaint
children. The principles of economy demand that the brief courses which specifically
prepare for teaching should be such as will make the work in the schoolroom most
helpful and least wasteful from the very beginning. Hence this attempt to collect
in one volume what may somewhat roughly be spoken of as material for a minimum
basic course in Children's Literature.

The important thing about this book, then, is the actual literary material included
in it. The notes and suggestions scattered throughout are aimed to direct attention
to this material either in the way of pointing out the sources of it, or helping in the
understanding and appreciation of it, or suggesting some ways of presenting it most
effectively to children.

In the case of folk material, an effort has been made to present reliable versions
of the stories used. Many of the folk stories, for instance, appear in dozens of collections
and in dozens of forms, according to the artistic or pedagogic biases of the
various compilers. As a rule the most accessible stories are found in versions written[6]
down to the supposed needs of children, and intended to be read by the children
themselves. Even if we grant the teacher the right to make extensive modifications,
it is still reasonable to insist that some correct traditional form be used as the starting
point. Such a plan insures a mastery of one's material. The sources of the
versions used in this text are pointed out in order that teachers who wish to do so
may extend their acquaintance to other folk material by referring to the various
collections mentioned.

Such a book as this must necessarily be selective. No doubt omissions will be
noted of poems or stories that many teachers deem indispensable. Others will find
selections included that to their minds are questionable. The editors can only plead
in extenuation that they have included what they have found by experience to offer
a sound basis for discussing with training classes the nature of this basic material
and the form in which it should be presented to children. To accomplish these ends
it has sometimes seemed well to give parallel versions, and occasionally to give a
version that will necessitate the discussion of such subjects as the use of dialect, the
inclusion of items of terror or horror, and the soundness of the ethical appeal. These
various problems are indicated in the notes accompanying individual selections.

The editorial apparatus does not constitute a treatise on literary criticism, or
a manual of mythology or folklore, or a "pedagogy" of children's literature as such,
or anything like an exhaustive bibliography of the fields of study touched upon. It
aims at the very modest purpose of immediate and practical utility. It hopes to
fill a place as a sort of first aid for the inexperienced teacher, and as soon as the teacher
gets some real grasp of the elements of the problem this book must yield to the more
elaborate and well-knit discussions of specialists in the various subjects treated.
The bibliographical references throughout are intended to offer help in this forward
step. These bibliographies are, in all cases, frankly selective. As a rule most of
the books mentioned are books now in print. In the bibliographies connected with
the sections of traditional material some of the more important works in the field
of scholarship are named in each case for the benefit of those who may be working
where such books are available in institutional or public libraries. Titles of books
are printed in italics, while titles of poems, separate stories, and selections are printed
in roman type inclosed in quotation marks.

The grouping of material is in no sense a hard and fast one. Those who work
in literary fields understand the pitfalls that beset one who attempts such a classification.
Only a general grouping under headings used in the ordinary popular
sense has been made. Fine distinctions are beside the mark in such a book as this.
Popular literature was not made for classification, but for higher purposes, and anything
that draws attention from the pleasure-giving and spirit-invigorating qualities
of the literature itself should be avoided. Hence, the classifications adopted are as
simple and unobtrusive as possible.

Finally, the editors make no pretense to original scholarship. They have not
attempted to extend the limits of human knowledge, but to point out pleasant paths
leading to the limitless domains of literature. They have tried to reflect accurately
the best practices and theories, or to point out how teachers may get at the best.[7]
Their obligations to others are too extended to be noted in a preface, but will
be apparent on every page of the text. Their most important lessons have come
from the reactions secured from hundreds of teachers who have been under their
tuition.

Copyright obligations are indicated in connection with the selections used.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

1. LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN

The beginnings. During the eighteenth century the peoples of Europe and
America turned their attention in a remarkable way to a consideration of the worth
and rights of the individual. In America this so-called democratic movement
culminated in the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The most dramatic manifestation
of the movement in Europe was the French Revolution of 1789, but every
country of Europe was thrilled and changed by the new thought. Every important
democratic movement leads to an awakened interest in the welfare of children, for
they are among the weak and helpless. This great movement of the eighteenth
century brought such a remarkable change of thought regarding children as to mark
the beginning of a new kind of literature, known as literature for children.

Today we think of Andersen, Stevenson, Mrs. Ewing, and scores of others as
writers of literature for children. Such writers did not exist before the democratic
movement of the eighteenth century. It is true that a few short books and articles
had been written for children as early as the fifteenth century, but they were written
to teach children to be obedient and respectful to parents and masters or to instruct
them in the customs of the church—they were not written primarily to entertain
children and give them pleasure. Within the last century and a half, too, many
authors have collected and retold for children innumerable traditional stories from
all parts of the earth—traditional fairy stories, romantic stories of the Middle
Ages, legends, and myths.

The child's inheritance. As has been indicated, children's literature is of two
kinds: first, the traditional kind that grew up among the folk of long ago in the forms
of rhyme, myth, fairy tale, fable, legend, and romantic hero story; and, second, the
kind that has been produced in modern times by individual authors. The first, the
traditional kind, was produced by early civilization and by the childlike peasantry of
long ago. The best of the stories produced by the childhood of the race have been
bequeathed to the children of today, and to deprive children of the pleasure they
would get from this inheritance of folklore seems as unjust as to deprive them of
traditional games, which also help to make the first years of a person's life, the period
of childhood, the period of imaginative play. The second kind of children's literature,
that produced in modern times by individual authors, has likewise been bequeathed
to children. Some of it is so new that its worth has not been determined, but some
of it has passed the test of the classics. The best of both kinds is as priceless as is
the classical literature for adults. The world would not sell Shakespeare; yet one
may well doubt that Shakespeare is worth as much to humanity as is Mother Goose.
To evaluate truly the worth of such classics is impossible; but we may be assured[8]
that the child who has learned to appreciate the pleasures and the beauties of Mother
Goose is the one most likely to appreciate the pleasures and the beauties of Shakespeare
when the proper time comes.

The true purpose of education is to bring the child into his inheritance. For
many years educators have talked about the use of literature in the grades as one
means of accomplishing this purpose. The results of attempts to teach literature
in the grades have sometimes been disappointing because often the literature used
has not been for the grades; that is, it has not been children's literature. In other
cases the attempts have failed because the literature has not been presented as
literature—it has, for example, been presented as reading lessons or composition
assignments. Students preparing to teach in the grades have been studying textbooks
from which literature for children has been excluded, regardless of its artistic
worth. Consequently many teachers have not been prepared to teach literature in
the grades. Often they have assumed that the reading lesson would develop in the
pupil an appreciation of good literature, not realizing that the reading lesson may
cause pupils to dislike literature, especially poetry, unless it is supplemented by
appropriate work in children's literature. If the student reads thoughtfully the
literary selections in the following sections of this book, he probably will realize
that children's literature is also literature for adults, and that it is not only the child's
inheritance, but also the inheritance of humanity.

The fact that literature for children is likely to have a strong interest for adults
is strikingly suggested in a few sentences in John Macy's A Child's Guide to Reading:

When "juveniles" are really good, parents read them after children have gone to bed.
I do not know whether Tom Brown at Rugby is catalogued by the careful librarian as a book
for boys, but I am sure it is a book for men. I dare say that a good many pairs of eyes that
have passed over the pages of Mr. John T. Trowbridge and Elijah Kellogg and Louisa M.
Alcott have been old enough to wear spectacles. And if Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin ever
thought that in Timothy's Quest and Rebecca she was writing books especially for the young,
adult readers have long since claimed her for their own. I have enjoyed Mr. A. S. Pier's tales
of the boys at St. Timothy's, though he planned them for younger readers. We are told on
good authority that St. Nicholas and The Youth's Companion appear in households where
there are no children, and they give a considerable portion of their space to serial stories written
for young people. Between good "juveniles" and good books for grown persons there is
not much essential difference.

2. LITERATURE IN THE GRADES

Reading and literature distinguished. A country school-teacher once abruptly
stopped the routine of daily work and, standing beside her desk, told the story of
the maid who counted her chickens before they were hatched. One of her pupils,
who is now a man, remembers vividly how the incident impressed him. Although
he was in the second grade, that was the first time he had known a teacher to stop
regular school work to tell a story. Immediately the teacher was transformed.
She had been merely a teacher, one of those respected, awe-inspiring creatures whose
business it is to make the school mill go; but the magic of her story established the
relation of friendship between teacher and pupil. She was no longer merely a teacher.[9]
If the story had been read as a part of the reading lesson, it would not have impressed
the pupil greatly. It was impressive because it was presented as literature.

A clear distinction should be made between reading and literature, especially
in the primary grades. In the work of the reading course the pupil should take the
lead, being guided by the teacher. If the pupil is to progress, he must master the
mechanics of reading—he must learn to pronounce printed words and to get the
meaning of printed sentences and paragraphs. The course in reading requires
patient work on the part of the pupil, just as the course in arithmetic does, and the
chief pleasure that the primary pupil can derive from the work is a consciousness of
enlarged power and of success in accomplishing what is undertaken.

In the work with literature, however, the teacher should take the lead. She
should open to the pupils the magic treasure house of the world's best story and
song. The literature period of the day should be the pupil's imaginative play
period, bringing relief from the tension of tired nerves. The teacher who makes
the study of literature a mechanical grind instead of a joyous exercise of imagination
misses at least two of her greatest opportunities as a teacher. First, by failing to
cultivate in her pupils an appreciation of good literature, she misses an opportunity
to make the lives of her pupils brighter and happier. Second, by failing to realize
that the person with a story and a song is everybody's friend, she misses an opportunity
to win the friendship, admiration, and love of her pupils. The inexperienced
teacher who is well-nigh distracted in her efforts to guide forty restless, disorderly
pupils through the program of a day's work might charm half her troubles away
by the magic of a simple story or by the music and imagery of a juvenile poem. Her
story or poem would do more than remove the cause of disorder by giving the pupils
relaxation from nerve-straining work: it would help to establish that first essential
to all true success in teaching—a relation of friendship between pupils and teacher.

Culture through literature. He was a wise educator who said, "The boy who has
access to good books and who has learned to make them his close friends is beyond
the power of evil." Literature in the grades, in addition to furnishing intellectual
recreation, should so cultivate in the pupil the power of literary appreciation that
he will make good books his close friends. The child who has heard good music
from infancy is not likely to be attracted by popular ragtime. The boy who has
been trained in habits of courtesy, industry, and pure thinking in his home life, and
school life is not likely to find pleasure in the rudeness, idleness, and vulgarity of the
village poolroom. The pupil who is taught to appreciate the beautiful, the true,
and the good in standard literature is not likely to find pleasure in reading the melodramatic
and sentimental trash that now has prominence of place and space in many
book stores and in some public libraries. It is the duty of the teacher, and it should
be her pleasure, to cultivate in her pupils such a taste for good literature as will lead
them to choose the good and reject the bad, a taste that will insure for them the
culture that good literature gives.

Selection of material. In choosing selections of literary worth to present to her
pupils, the teacher should keep in mind the pupil's stage of mental development
and she should not forget that the study of literature should give pleasure. Often[10]
pupils do not like what moral writers think they should like, and usually the pupils
are right. Good literature is sincere and is true in its appeal to the fundamental
emotions of humanity, and an obvious attempt to teach a moral theory at the expense
of truth is no more to be tolerated in literature for children than in literature for
adults. The childhood of the race has produced much literature with a true appeal
to the human heart, in the form of fable, fairy story, myth, and hero story. Most
of this literature appeals strongly to the child of today. For several hundred years
the nursery rhymes of "Mother Goose" have delighted children with their melody,
humor, and imagery. As literature for the kindergarten and first grade, they have
not often been excelled by modern writers. The task of selecting suitable material
from the many poems, stories, and books written for children in recent years is
difficult, but if the teacher has a keen appreciation of good literature and is guided
by the likes and dislikes of her pupils, she probably will not go far astray.

Supplemental reading. If the teacher examines the juvenile books offered for
sale by the book dealers of her town or city, she probably will discover that most
of them are trash not fit to be read by anyone, and she will realize the importance
of directing parents in the selection of gift books for children. A good way to get
better books into the book stores and into the hands of children is to give the pupils
a list of good books, with the suggestion that they ask their parents to buy one of
them the next time a book is to be bought as a present. Such lists of books also
will improve the standard of books in the town library, for librarians will be quick
to realize the importance of supplying standard literature if there is a demand for it.

3. STORY-TELLING AND DRAMATIZATION

Story-telling. Most stories are much more effective when well told than they
are when read, just as most lectures and sermons are most effective when delivered
without manuscript. To explain just why the story well told is superior to the
story read might not be easy, but much of the superiority probably comes from the
freedom of the "talk style" and the more appropriate use of inflection and emphasis.
Then, too, the story-teller can look at her audience and is free to add a descriptive
word or phrase occasionally to produce vividness of impression. Some stories, of
course, are so constructed that they must follow closely the diction of the original
form. "Henny-Penny" and Kipling's Just-So Stories are of this type. Such stories
should be read. Most stories, however, are most effective when well told. The
teacher, especially the teacher of one of the primary grades, should not consider
herself prepared to teach literature until she has gained something of the art of
story-telling.

Selection of stories. Never attempt to tell a story that you do not like. You
are not prepared to interest pupils in a story, however appropriate it otherwise may
be, if you are not interested in it yourself. Try to choose stories adapted in structure
and content to the age and experience of the children of your grade. For the first
or second grade, choose a few simple fables, a few short, simple fairy tales, and a few
short, simple nature stories, such as "Peter Rabbit," "How Johnny Chuck Finds
the Best Thing in the World," and "Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell." Remember that a
story for the first or second grade should be short.[11]

Two principles. Learn to apply readily the following principles of method:
First, use the past tense in telling a story except in direct quotation. The rules of
grammar require this, and it is an aid to clearness and effectiveness. For example,
do not say, "So he goes" or "Then he says"; but say, "So he went" or "Then he
said" (or, for variety, replied, growled, mumbled, etc.). Second, use direct discourse
(the exact words of the characters) rather than indirect discourse. For example,
do not say, "The Troll asked who was tripping over his bridge"; but say, "'WHO'S
THAT tripping over my bridge?' roared the Troll." Direct discourse always gives
life and vividness to a story.

Preparation and presentation. When you have selected a suitable story, read
it carefully several times to learn the essential details and the order in which they
should come. Keep in mind the fact that you are to use the past tense and direct
discourse. If the story is a fable, you probably will see that you should add much
conversation and description not in the text. A little description of the witch, giant,
fairy, or castle may give vividness to your story. If the story is a long fairy tale, you
may see that many details may be omitted. If the story is as concise and dramatic as
is the version of "The Three Billy-Goats Gruff" in this book, it may be suitable for
presentation without any changes. When you have the story clearly in mind as you
wish to present it, tell it to the pupils several times, and then have some of them tell it.

Your story, of course, should not be told in a lifeless monotone. Some parts
should be told slowly, and others rapidly. In some parts the voice should be low
and soft, while in other parts it should be loud and gruff or harsh. The words of
the princess should not sound like those of the old witch or the soldier. The daintiness
and grace of elves and fairies should be indicated in the delivery.

Corroborative opinion. The many books on the art of story-telling by skilled
practitioners and the emphasis placed upon the great practical value of story-telling
by all those charged with the oversight of the education of children show conclusively
that the story method in teaching is having its grand renascence. The English
education minister, Mr. H. A. L. Fisher, speaking recently on the subject of "History
Teaching," set forth admirably the general principles back of this revival:

There is no difficulty about interesting children. The real difficulty is to bore them.
Almost any tale will interest a child. It need not be well constructed or thrilling; it may be
filled with the most unexciting and trivial incidents, but so long as it carries the mind along
at all, it will interest a child. The hunger which intelligent children have for stories is almost
inexhaustible. They like to have their stories repeated, and insist that the characters should
reappear over and over again, for they have an appetite for reality and a desire to fix these
passing figments into the landscape of the real life with which they are surrounded.

One of the great qualities in childhood which makes it apt for receiving historical impressions
is just this capacity for giving body to the phantoms of the mind. The limits between
the real and the legendary or miraculous which are drawn by the critical intelligence do not
exist for the childish mind. . . . It would then be a great educational disaster if this valuable
faculty in childhood were allowed to run to waste. There are certain years in the development
of every normal intelligent child when the mind is full of image-making power and eager
to make a friend or enemy of any god, hero, nymph, fairy, or servant maid who may come
along. Then is the time when it is right and fitting to affect some introductions to the great[12]
characters of mythology and history; that is the age at which children will eagerly absorb
what they can learn of Achilles and Orpheus, of King Arthur and his Knights, of Alexander
and Christopher Columbus and the Duke of Wellington. I do not think it is necessary to
obtrude any moralizing commentary when these great and vague images are first brought
into the landscape of the child's intellectual experience. A little description, a few stories,
a picture or two, will be enough to fix them in the memory and to give them body and shape
together with the fairies and witches and pirate kings and buccaneering captains with whom
we have all at one time been on such familiar terms. Let us then begin by teaching the past
to small children by way of stories and pictures.

Dramatization. The play spirit that leads children to play lady, doctor, church,
and school will also lead them to enjoy dramatizing stories, or "playing the stories,"
as they call it. Some stories, of course, are so lacking in action as to be not well
suited for dramatization, and others have details of action, character, or situation
that may not well be represented in the schoolroom. The teacher may be surprised,
however, to see how ingenious her pupils are in overcoming difficulties after they
have had a little assistance in playing two or three stories. Unconsciously the pupil
will get from the dramatization a training in oral English, reading, and literary
appreciation that can hardly be gained in any other way.

When the pupils have learned a story thoroughly, they are ready to make plans
for playing it. The stage setting may be considered first, and here the child's imagination
can work wonders in arranging details. The opening under the teacher's
desk may become a dungeon, a cave, a cellar, or a well. If a two-story house is
needed, it may be outlined on the floor in the front part of the schoolroom, with
a chalk-mark stairway, up which Goldilocks can walk to lie down on three coats—the
three beds in the bed-chamber of the three bears.

The pupils can probably soon decide what characters are necessary, but more
time may be required to assign the parts. To play the part of a spider, bear, wolf,
fairy, sheep, or butterfly does not seem difficult to a child who has entered into the
spirit of the play.

The most difficult part of dramatization may be the plan for conversation,
especially if the text version of the story contains little or no direct discourse. The
pupils should know the general nature of the conversation and action before they
begin to play the story, although they need not memorize the parts. Suppose that
the fable "The Shepherd's Boy" is to be dramatized. The first part of the dramatization
might be described about as follows:

The shepherd boy, tending his flock of pupil-sheep in the pasture land at one
side of the teacher's-desk-mountain, looked toward the pupil-desk-village at
one side of the room and said quietly, "It certainly is lonely here. I believe
I'll make those villagers think a wolf has come to eat the sheep. Then perhaps
they'll come down here, and I'll have a little company and some excitement."
Then he jumped around frantically, waving his yardstick-shepherd's crook,
and shouted to the villagers, "Wolf! Wolf!"

The villagers came rushing down to the pasture land, asking excitedly,
"Where's the wolf? Has he killed many of the sheep?"[13]

"Oh, oh, oh," laughed the boy, "there wasn't any wolf. I certainly did
fool you that time."

"I don't think that's very funny," said one of the villagers.

"Well, we might as well go back to our work," said another. Then they
went back to the village.

After they had gone, the boy said, "I guess I'll try that joke again."

If the teacher puts much direct discourse in a story of this kind when she tells
it to the pupils, the task of dramatizing will naturally be made easier.

Some stories lend themselves in the most natural manner to dramatization.
An interesting example of such a story may be found among the tales dealing with
the Wise Men of Gotham. These Wise Men are referred to in one of the best known
of the Mother Goose rhymes. It would seem that the inhabitants of Gotham, in
the reign of King John, had some reason of their own for pretending to be mad, and
out of this event the legends took their rise. The number of fishermen may be
changed to seven or some other number to suit the number in the acting group. Here
is the story:

On a certain time there were twelve men of Gotham that went to fish, and some stood on
dry land. And in going home, one said to the other "We have ventured wonderfully in wading.
I pray God that none of us come home to be drowned." "Nay, marry," said the other,
"let us see that, for there did twelve of us come out." Then they counted themselves, and
every one counted eleven. Said the one to the other, "There is one of us drowned." They
went back to the brook where they had been fishing and sought up and down for him that
was drowned, making great lamentation.

A stranger coming by asked what it was they sought for, and why they were sorrowful.
"Oh!" said they, "this day we went to fish in the brook; twelve of us came together, and one
is drowned." Said the stranger, "Tell how many there be of you." One of them, counting,
said, "Eleven," and again he did not count himself. "Well," said the stranger, "what will
you give me if I find the twelfth man?" "Sir," said they, "all the money we have got."
"Give me the money," said the stranger, and began with the first, and gave him a stroke
over the shoulders with his whip, which made him groan, saying, "Here is one," and so he served
them all, and they all groaned at the matter. When he came to the last he paid him well,
saying, "Here is the twelfth man." "God's blessing on thy heart," said they, "for thus finding
our dear brother."

4. COURSES OF STUDY

As an aid to inexperienced teachers, it seems well to suggest in a summary
how a selection of material suitable for each grade might be made from the material
of this book. The summary, however, should be regarded as suggestive in a general
way only. No detailed outline of a course of study in literature for the grades can
be ideal for all schools because the pupils of a given grade in one school may be much
more advanced in the knowledge of literature and the ability to understand and
appreciate it than are the pupils of the same grade in another school. Many literary
selections, too, might appropriately be taught in almost any grade if the method of
presentation in each case were suited to the understanding of the pupils. Robinson
Crusoe, for example, may appropriately be told to second-grade pupils, or it may be
read by fourth- or fifth-grade pupils, or it may be studied as fiction by eighth-grade[14]
pupils or university students. All poems of remarkable excellence that are suitable
for primary pupils are also suitable for pupils in the higher grades and for adults, and
the same is true of many prose selections.

The summary that follows, then, is to be regarded as "first aid" to the untrained,
inexperienced teacher. The teacher's own personal likes and dislikes and her success
in presenting various literary selections should eventually lead her to modify any
prescribed course of study. If a teacher of the sixth grade discovers that her pupils
should rank only second grade in knowledge and appreciation of literature, she may
very properly begin with traditional fairy tales. Another outlined course of study
is given in Section XII of this book.

First, second, and third grades. Since pupils in the primary grades read with
difficulty if at all, the teacher should tell or read all selections presented as literature
in these grades.

No kind of prose is better suited for use in the primary grades than traditional
fairy tales. About half a dozen might well be presented in each of the three grades.
For the first grade, the simplest should be chosen, such as "The Old Woman and Her
Pig," "Teeny-Tiny," "The Cat and the Mouse," "The Three Pigs," "The Three
Bears," and "The Elves and the Shoemaker." As suitable stories for the second
grade, we might choose "The Three Sillies," "Little Red Riding-Hood," "Cinderella,"
"The Three Billy-Goats Gruff," "The Straw Ox," and "The Horned Women."
For the third grade, somewhat longer and more complex stories might be chosen.

About half a dozen fables might also be used appropriately in each of the primary
grades. Simple Aesopic fables in prose seem best for the first two grades. More
complex forms might be chosen for the third grade, for example, "The Story of
Alnaschar," "The Good Samaritan," "The Discontented Pendulum," "The Musical
Ass," "The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab," and "The Hen with the Golden Eggs."

Much of the nature literature of the primary grades may be in the form of verse,
but some simple nature prose may be used successfully. From the selections in this
book, "Peter Rabbit" should be chosen for the first grade, while "Johnny Chuck,"
and "Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell" are appropriate for the second and third grades.

The simplest of Andersen's Fairy Tales may be used in the third grade, and perhaps
in the second. Some suitable stories are "The Real Princess," "The Fir Tree,"
"The Tinder Box," "The Hardy Tin Soldier," and "The Ugly Duckling."

The ideal verse for the first grade is nursery rhymes, which may be chosen
from the first 135 selections of this book. These may be supplemented by such
simple verse as "The Three Kittens," "The Moon," "Ding Dong," "The Little
Kitty," "Baby Bye," "Time to Rise," "Rain," "I Like Little Pussy," and "The
Star." In the second and third grades, traditional verses from those following
Number 135 in Section II may be used. The poems by Stevenson are ideal for these
grades, and those by Field, Sherman, and Christina Rossetti are good. In addition
the teacher might select such poems as "The Brown Thrush," and "Who Stole
the Bird's Nest."

Fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. Although pupils in these intermediate grades
may be expected to read some library books, the teacher should read and tell stories[15]
frequently, for this is the surest way to develop in the pupil a taste for good literature.
The teacher should remember, too, that the story she recommends to the pupils as
suitable reading should be about two grades easier than those told or read by the
teacher. Probably every poem presented as literature in these grades should be read
or recited by the teacher because pupils are not likely to get the charm of rhythm,
melody, and rhyme if they do the reading. Pupils who dislike poetry are pupils
who have not heard good poetry well read.

Myths are appropriate for each of the intermediate grades. Most teachers
prefer for the fourth grade the simpler classical myths, such as "A Story of Springtime,"
"The Miraculous Pitcher," "The Narcissus," and "The Apple of Discord."
In the fifth grade, the teacher may use the more difficult classical myths, reserving
the Norse myths for the sixth grade.

Modern fairy and fantastic stories are also appropriate for each of these grades.
Suitable stories for the fourth grade are "The Four-Leaved Clover," "The Emperor's
New Clothes," "The Nightingale," and "The Story of Fairyfoot." Stories appropriate
for the fifth grade are "The Happy Prince," "The Knights of the Silver Shield,"
and "The Prince's Dream." In the sixth grade, the teacher might use "Old Pipes
and the Dryad" and "The King of the Golden River."

Two or three symbolic stories or fables in verse from the last part of Section V
should be used in each of these grades.

Nature prose should appeal more and more to children as they advance from
the fourth to the eighth grade. Many pupils in the fourth grade will enjoy reading
for themselves books by Burgess and Paine, while fifth- and sixth-grade pupils will
get much pleasure from the simpler books by Sharp, Seton, Long, Miller, and Roberts.
In the intermediate grades, the teacher may read such stories as "Wild Life in the
Farm Yard," "The Vendetta," "Pasha," "Moufflou," and "Bird Habits."

Stories of various other kinds may be read by the teacher in the intermediate
grades. "Goody Two-Shoes" and "Waste Not, Want Not," are suitable for the
fourth grade. The biographies "How Columbus Got His Ships" and "Boyhood of
Washington" are excellent in the fifth or sixth grade as an introduction to history
study, and the romance "Robin Hood and the Merry Little Old Woman" may be used
appropriately in any of these grades, especially if it is made to supplement a discussion
of the Norman conquest.

Most of the poems up to about No. 342, and a few beyond that, are within the
range of the work for these grades.

Seventh and eighth grades. Although pupils in the seventh and eighth grades
may be expected to read simple narrative readily, the teacher should read to the
pupils frequently. It cannot be too much emphasized that reading aloud to children
is the surest way of developing an appreciation of the best in literature. In poetry
especially this is a somewhat critical time, as the pupil is passing from the simpler
and more concrete verse to that which has a more prominent thought content. The
persuasion of the reading voice smooths over many obstacles here. Outside the
field of poetry, the teacher's work in these grades is mainly one of guidance and
direction in getting the children and the right books in contact. Children at[16]
this period are likely to be omnivorous readers, ready for any book that comes their
way, and the job of keeping them supplied with titles of enough available good books
for their needs is indeed one to tax all a teacher's knowledge and experience.

The demand for highly sensational stories on the part of pupils in the upper
grades is so insistent that it constitutes a special problem for the teacher. It is a
perfectly natural demand, and no wise teacher will attempt to stifle it. Such an
attempt would almost certainly result in a more or less surreptitious reading of a mass
of unwholesome books which have come to be known as "dime novels." Instead of
trying to thwart this desire for the thrilling story the teacher should be ready to
recommend books which have all the attractive adventure features of the "dime
novel," and which have in addition sound artistic and ethical qualities. While many
such books are mentioned in the bibliographies in the latter part of this text, it has
seemed well to bring together here a short list of those which librarians over the
country have found particularly fitted to serve as substitutes for the dime novel.

[1889. Whitmore, W. H., The Original Mother Goose's Melody, as first issued by John
Newbery, of London, about a.d. 1760. Reproduced in facsimile from the edition as
reprinted by Isaiah Thomas, of Worcester, Mass., about a.d. 1785. With introduction
and notes.]

[Hale, Edward Everett, The Only True Mother Goose Melodies. Exact reproduction of the
text and illustrations of the original edition (Mother Goose's Melodies: The Only Pure
Edition) printed in Boston in 1834 by Monroe and Francis. With an introduction.]

1826. Chambers, Robert, Popular Rhymes of Scotland. [1870, enlarged.]

1834. Ker, John Bellenden, An Essay on the Archaeology of Popular English Phrases and
Nursery Rhymes. [Supplemented 1840 and 1842.]

SECTION II. MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES

INTRODUCTORY

A flawless literature. The one literature that is supremely adapted to its purpose
is the collection of rhymes associated with Mother Goose. To every child it
comes with an irresistible appeal. It has a power so natural and fundamental that
it defies explanation. The child takes it for granted just as he does his parents. It
has a perfection of rhythm and structure not attainable by modern imitators. It
has been perfected through the generations by the surest of all tests, that of constant
popular use. Much of it is common to many different nations. It is an international
literature of childhood. While much of it is known to children long before they enter
school, these jingles, like all folk literature, never lose their charm through repetition.
The schools have long since learned the value of the familiar in teaching. The
process of learning to read is usually based on some of the better known rhymes.
Teachers of literature in more advanced classes think they can generally detect the
students who have been especially "learned" in "Mother Goose her ways" by their
quick responsiveness to the facts of verbal rhythm and rhythmical structure in
more sophisticated products. "If we have no love for poetry to-day, it may not
impossibly be due to the fact that we have ceased to prize the old, old tales which have
been the delight of the child and the child-man since the foundations of the world.
If you want your child to love Homer, do not withhold Mother Goose."

Who was Mother Goose? The answer to this, as to other questions suggested
below, may be of no direct or special interest to the children themselves. But teachers
should know some of the main conclusions arrived at by folklorists and others in their
investigations of the traditional materials used for basic work in literature. All the
evidence shows that Mother Goose as the name of the familiar old lady of the nursery
came to us from France. Andrew Lang discovered a reference to her in a French
poem of 1650, where she figures as a teller of stories. In 1697 Perrault's famous fairy
tales were published with a frontispiece representing an old woman spinning, and
telling tales to a man, a girl, a little boy, and a cat. On this frontispiece was the
legend, Tales of Our Mother Goose. (See note to No. 161.)

As a teller of prose tales, Mother Goose came to England with the translation
of Perrault about 1730. We do not find her name connected with verse until after
the middle of the eighteenth century. About the year 1760 a little book called
Mother Goose's Melody was issued by John Newbery, a London publisher and a
most important figure in the history of the production of books for children. It is
a pleasant and not improbable theory that this first collection of nursery rhymes,
upon which later ones were built, was the work of Oliver Goldsmith, who was for
some years in Newbery's employ. However that may be, it is certain that from
this date the name of Mother Goose has been almost exclusively associated with
nursery rhymes.[20]

Newbery's Mother Goose's Melody was soon reprinted by Isaiah Thomas, of
Worcester, Massachusetts, and thus came into the hands of American children early
in our national life. A long-since exploded theory was advanced about 1870 that
Mother Goose was a real woman of Boston in the early eighteenth century, whose
rhymes were published by her son-in-law, Thomas Fleet, in 1719. But no one has
identified any such publication and there is no evidence whatever that this old lady
in cap and spectacles is other than purely mythical.

Whence came the jingles themselves? It is certain that many nursery rhymes are
both widespread geographically in distribution and of great antiquity. Halliwell
and others have found references to some of them in old books which prove that
many of the English rhymes go back several centuries. They are of popular origin;
that is, they took root anonymously among the folk and were passed on by word of
mouth. When a rhyme can be traced to any known authority we generally find
that the folk have extracted what pleased, have forgotten or modified any original
historical or other application the rhymes may have possessed, and in general have
shaped the rhyme to popular taste. "Thus our old nursery rhymes," says Andrew
Lang, "are smooth stones from the book of time, worn round by constant friction
of tongues long silent. We cannot hope to make new nursery rhymes, any more
than we can write new fairy tales."

Here are a few illustrations of what scholars have been able to tell us of the
sources of the rhymes: "Jack and Jill" preserves the Icelandic myth of two children
caught up into the moon, where they can still be seen carrying a bucket on a pole
between them. "Three Blind Mice" is traced to an old book called Deuteromalia
(1609). "Little Jack Horner" is all that is left of an extended chapbook story,
The Pleasant History of Jack Horner, Containing His Witty Tricks, etc. "Poor Old
Robinson Crusoe" is a fragment from a song by the character Jerry Sneak in Foote's
Mayor of Garratt (1763). "Simple Simon" gives all that the nursery has preserved
of a long chapbook verse story. "A Swarm of Bees in May" was found by Halliwell
quoted in Miege's Great French Dictionary (1687). These and numerous like facts
serve only to impress us with the long and honorable history of the nursery rhyme.

Can nursery rhymes be helpfully classified? This question seems of more consequence
to the teacher than the previous ones because it deals with the practical
organization of his material. The most superficial observer can see that Nos. 3, 36,
46, 59, 62, and 113, on the following pages, are riddles; that Nos. 22 and 30 are
counting-out rhymes; that Nos. 37, 38, 39, 40, and 41 are replies that might be
made to one who indulged unduly in suppositions; that No. 27 is a face game, No.
75 a hand game, and No. 108 a toe game; that Nos. 42, 81, 82, 107, and 111 are
riding songs; that Nos. 7, 10, 23, 67, and 137 are proverbial sayings; that Nos. 64
and 89 are charms; and so one might continue with groupings based on the immediate
use made of the rhyme, not forgetting the great number that lend themselves to the
purposes of the crooned lullaby or soothing song.

Halliwell made the first attempt at any complete classification in his Nursery
Rhymes of England (1842), using eighteen headings: (1) Historical, (2) Literal, (3)
Tales, (4) Proverbs, (5) Scholastic, (6) Songs, (7) Riddles, (8) Charms, (9) Gaffers
and Gammers, (10) Games, (11) Paradoxes, (12) Lullabies, (13) Jingles, (14) Love[21]
and Matrimony, (15) Natural History, (16) Accumulative Stories, (17) Local, (18)
Relics. Andrew Lang follows Halliwell, but reduces the classes to fourteen by combining
(2) and (5), (7) and (11), (8) and (12), and by omitting (17). These classifications
are made from the standpoint of the folklore scholar, and are based on the
sources from which the rhymes originally sprang. Professor Saintsbury scouts the
value of any such arrangement, since all belong equally in the one class, "jingles,"
and he also rightly points out that "all genuine nursery rhymes . . . have never
become nursery rhymes until the historical fact has been practically forgotten by
those who used them, and nothing but the metrical and musical attraction remains."

Without denying the great significance of popular rhymes to the student of folklore,
we must look elsewhere for any practical suggestion for the teacher in the matter
of arrangement. Such a suggestion will be found in the late Charles Welsh's Book of
Nursery Rhymes, a little volume that every teacher interested in children's literature
must make use of. The rhymes are grouped into three main divisions: (1) Mother
Play, (2) Mother Stories, and (3) Child Play, with subordinate groupings under each.
About 250 rhymes are included in Welsh's collection, and the arrangement suggests
the best order for using them practically, without dropping into any ironclad system.

It may be argued that any attempt at classification of material so freely and
variously used as the Mother Goose rhymes is sure to stiffen the work of the class
and render it less enjoyable. Spontaneity is more vital here than at any other stage
of one's literary education.

What is the secret of the nursery rhyme's appeal to children? Here at least we are
face to face with what may be called a final fact, that these jingles do make an appeal
so universal and remarkable that any attempt to explain it seems always to fall far
short of completeness. Perhaps the best start may be made with Mr. Welsh's suggestion
that this appeal is threefold: first, that which comes from the rhyming jingle, as
in "Higgledy, piggledy, my fat hen"; second, that which comes from the nonsense
surprises, as in "Hey diddle diddle," "Three wise men of Gotham," and "I'll
tell you a story"; third, that which comes from the dramatic action, as in "Little
Miss Muffet," and "Little Jack Horner." This summary does not differ much from
Mr. Walter Taylor Field's conclusions: "The child takes little thought as to what
any of these verses mean. There are perhaps four elements in them that appeal to
him,—first, the jingle, and with it that peculiar cadence which modern writers of
children's poetry strive in vain to imitate; second, the nonsense,—with just enough
of sense in it to connect the nonsense with the child's thinkable world; third, the
action,—for the stories are quite dramatic in their way; and fourth, the quaintness."
Mr. Field also emphasizes the probable charm of mystery in the face of the unknown
facts beyond the child's horizon, which appear in many of the rhymes.

Other commentators do little beyond expanding some of these suggestions.
All of them agree in stressing the appeal made by rhythm, the jingle, the emphatic
meter. This seems a fundamental thing in all literature, though readers are mainly
conscious of it in poetry. Just how fundamental it is in human life has not been
better hinted than in a sentence by Mrs. MacClintock: "One who is trying to write
a sober treatise in a matter-of-fact way dares not, lest he be set down as the veriest[22]
mystic, say all the things that might be said about the function of rhythm, especially
in its more pronounced form of meter, among a community of children, no matter
what the size of the group—how rhythmic motion, or the flow of measured and
beautiful sounds, harmonizes their differences, tunes them up to their tasks, disciplines
their conduct, comforts their hurts, quiets their nerves; all this apart from
the facts more or less important from the point of view of literature, that it cultivates
their ear, improves their taste, and provides them a genuinely artistic pleasure."

Professor Saintsbury, as usual, adds a fascinating turn to the discussion when,
after agreeing that we may see in the rhymes, "to a great extent, the poetical appeal
of sound as opposed to that of meaning in its simplest and most unmistakable terms,"
he continues: "And we shall find something else, which I venture to call the attraction
of the inarticulate. . . . In moments of more intense and genuine feeling . . .
[man] does not as a rule use or at least confine himself to articulate speech. . . .
All children . . . fall naturally, long after they are able to express themselves
as it is called rationally, into a sort of pleasant gibberish when they are alone and
pleased or even displeased. . . . It must be a not infrequent experience of most
people that one frequently falls into pure jingle and nonsense verse of the nursery
kind. . . . I should myself, though I may not carry many people with me, go
farther than this and say that this 'attraction of the inarticulate,' this allurement of
mere sound and sequence, has a great deal more to do than is generally thought with
the charm of the very highest poetry. . . . In the best nursery rhymes, as in the
simpler and more genuine ballads which have so close a connection with them, we
find this attraction of the inarticulate—this charm of pure sound, this utilizing of
alliteration and rhyme and assonance." Those who have noticed the tendency of
children to find vocal pleasure even of a physical or muscular sort in nonsense combinations
of sounds, and who also realize their own tendency in this direction, will
feel that Professor Saintsbury has hit upon a suggestive term in his claim for "the
attraction of the inarticulate" as a partial explanation of the Mother Goose appeal.

Through song, game, memorization, and dramatization, traditional or original, the
rhymes may be made to contribute to the child's satisfaction in all of the directions
pointed out.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

(Books referred to by authors' names are listed in preceding bibliography.)

For orientation read Chauncey B. Tinker, "In Praise of Nursery Lore," Unpopular Review,
Vol. VI, p. 338 (Oct.-Dec., 1916). For a most satisfactory presentation of the whole subject read
chap. x, "Mother Goose," in Field. For the origin of Mother Goose as a character consult Lang's
introduction to his edition of Perrault's Popular Tales. For the theory of her American nativity
see Wheeler and Whitmore. For the origins of the rhymes themselves the authorities are Halliwell
and Eckenstein. For pedagogical suggestions see Welsh, also his article "Nursery Rhymes," Cyclopedia
of Education (ed. Monroe). For many interesting facts and suggestions on rhythm in nursery
rhymes consult Charles H. Sears, "Studies in Rhythm," Pedagogical Seminary, Vol. VIII, p. 3.
For the whole subject of folk songs look into Martinengo-Cesaresco, The Study of Folk Songs. Books
and periodicals dealing with primary education often contain brief discussions of value on the use
of rhymes. Many Mother Goose records have been prepared by the educational departments of
the various talking-machine companies, and may be used to advantage in the work in rhythm.

The shorter rhymes (Nos. 1-115) are arranged
in alphabetical order. There are many
slight variations in the form of the text as
found in printed versions and in the oral
versions used by children in different communities.
While Halliwell has been used
as the basis for rhymes given in his collection,
the following versions try to reproduce
the forms of expression that seem generally
most pleasing to children.

A cat came fiddling out of a barn,
With a pair of bagpipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle-de-dee,
The mouse has married the bumble-bee;
Pipe, cat—dance, mouse—
We'll have a wedding at our good house.

As I was going to St. Ives,I met a man with seven wives;Every wife had seven sacks,Every sack had seven cats,Every cat had seven kits:Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives?

Ding, dong, bell!
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Green.
Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To drown the poor, poor pussy-cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn.

Four-and-twenty tailors went to kill a snail,
The bravest man among them dursn't touch her tail;
The snail put out her horns, like a little Kyloe cow,
Run, tailors, run, or she'll kill you all e'en now.

Given as usually known to children. In some
older versions the word "craft" was used
instead of "sport," thus making a rhyme.
There is an old story of an overly serious
parent who was greatly disturbed by the
evident exaggerations in this jingle. After
calling the attention of his children to the
offensive improbabilities, the good man suggested
the following "revised version."

Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped under the moon;
The little dog barked,
To see the sport,
And the cat ran after the spoon!

Hey! diddle, diddle,The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

If all the sea were one sea,
What a great sea that would be!
And if all the trees were one tree,
What a great tree that would be!
And if all the axes were one axe,
What a great axe that would be!
And if all the men were one man,
What a great man he would be!
And if the great man took the great axe,
And cut down the great tree,
And let it fall into the great sea,
What a splish splash that would be!

If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend!
Old chairs to mend! Old chairs to mend!"
I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend!"
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell!
Old clothes to sell! Old clothes to sell!"
I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell!"

I had a little pony,His name was Dapple-gray,
I lent him to a lady,To ride a mile away;
She whipped him, she slashed him,She rode him through the mire;
I would not lend my pony nowFor all that lady's hire.

I had a little hobby horse,His name was Tommy Gray,
His head was made of pease straw,His body made of hay;
I saddled him and bridled him,And rode him up to town,
There came a little puff of windAnd blew him up and down.

In marble walls as white as milk,
Lined with a skin as soft as silk;
Within a fountain crystal clear,
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold,
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.

1. I went up one pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went up two pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went into a room.
2. Just like me.
1. I looked out of a window.
2. Just like me.
1. And there I saw a monkey.
2. Just like me.

Little boy blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?
He's under the haycock fast asleep.
Will you wake him? No, not I;
For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.

Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig;
It was very little, so was not very big.
As it was playing beneath the shed,
In half a minute poor Piggie was dead.
So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,
And Betty Pringle she lay down and died.
This is the history of one, two, and three,
Johnny Pringle he,
Betty Pringle she,
And the Piggie-Wiggie.

Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler, he had a fine fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers.Oh, there's one so rare,As can compare
With old King Cole and his fiddlers three!

One misty, moisty morning,When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old manClothed all in leather,
He began to compliment,And I began to grin,—
"How do you do," and "How do you do,"And "How do you do" again!

Pussy sits beside the fire;How can she be fair?
In comes the little dog,"Pussy, are you there?
So, so, dear Mistress Pussy,Pray tell me how do you do?"
"Thank you, thank you, little dog,I'm very well just now."

Ride, baby, ride!Pretty baby shall ride,
And have a little puppy-dog tied to her side;
And one little pussy-cat tied to the other,
And away she shall ride to see her grandmother,To see her grandmother,To see her grandmother.

The lion and the unicornWere fighting for the crown;
The lion beat the unicornAll round about the town.
Some gave them white bread,And some gave them brown,
Some gave them plumcake,And sent them out of town.

The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts,All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts,And hid them clean away.
The King of Hearts he missed those tarts,And beat the Knave right sore,
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts,And vowed he'd steal no more.

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
And found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:[32]He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

There was a man and he had naught,And robbers came to rob him;
He crept up to the chimney top,And then they thought they had him;
But he got down on t'other side,And then they could not find him:He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,And never looked behind him.

There was a man in our town,And he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a briar bush,And scratched out both his eyes:
And when he saw his eyes were out,With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush,And scratched 'em in again.

There was an old woman lived under a hill,
And if she's not gone, she lives there still.
She put a mouse in a bag and sent it to mill;
The miller he swore by the point of his knife,
He never took toll of a mouse in his life.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, dancing a jig;
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog;
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun.
Home again, home again, market is done.

Two-legs sat upon three-legs,
With one-leg in his lap;
In comes four-legs
And runs away with one-leg;
Up jumps two-legs,[34]Catches up three-legs,
Throws it after four-legs,
And makes him bring one-leg back.

(One-leg is a leg of mutton;
two-legs, a man; three-legs,
a stool; four-legs, a dog.)

No. 116 and the two rhymes following are by
Miss Wilhelmina Seegmiller. (By permission
of the publishers, Rand McNally
& Co., Chicago.) Their presence will
allow teachers to compare some widely and
successfully used modern efforts with the
traditional jingles in the midst of which
they are placed.

MILKWEED SEEDS

As white as milk,
As soft as silk,
And hundreds close together:
They sail away,
On an autumn day,
When windy is the weather.

AN ANNIVERSARY

TWINK! TWINK!

Twink, twink, twink, twink,Twinkety, twinkety, twink!
The fireflies light their lanterns,Then put them out in a wink.

Twink, twink, twink, twink,They light their light once more,
Then twinkety, twinkety, twink, twink,They put them out as before.

Nos. 119-146 are in the main the longer nursery
favorites and may somewhat loosely
be called the novels and epics of the nursery
as the former group may be called the
lyrics and short stories. All of them are
marked by dramatic power, a necessary
element in all true classics for children
whether in verse or prose. Nos. 119 and
120 are two of the favorite jingles used in
teaching the alphabet. Each letter suggests
a distinct image. In No. 119 the
images are all of actions, and connected by
the direction of these actions upon a single
object. In No. 120 the images are each
complete and independent. Here it may be
noticed that some of the elements of the
pictures are determined by the exigencies
of rhyme, as, for instance, what the archer
shot at, and what the lady had. The
originator doubtless expected the child to
see the relation of cause and consequence
between Y and Z.

MOLLY AND I

Molly, my sister, and I fell out,
And what do you think it was about?
She loved coffee, and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn't agree.
But Molly, my sister, and I made up,
And now together we can sup,
For Molly drinks coffee, and I drink tea,
And we both are happy as happy can be.

THERE WAS A LITTLE MAN

There was a little man,And he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;He went to a brook,And fired at a duck,[38]And shot it through the head, head, head.He carried it homeTo his old wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,To roast the little duck,He had shot in the brook,
And he'd go and fetch her the drake, drake, drake.

The drake was a-swimming,With his curly tail;
The little man made it his mark, mark, mark!He let off his gun,But he fired too soon,
And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack.

TAFFY

Taffy was a Welshman;
Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy wasn't home;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a marrow-bone.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy was in bed;
I took up the marrow-bone
And flung it at his head!

TOM THE PIPER'S SON

Tom he was a piper's son,
He learned to play when he was young,
But all the tunes that he could play,
Was "Over the hills and far away";Over the hills, and a great way off,And the wind will blow my top-knot off.

Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise,[39]That he pleased both the girls and boys,
And they stopped to hear him play,
"Over the hills and far away."

Tom with his pipe did play with such skill,
That those who heard him could never keep still;
Whenever they heard him they began to dance,
Even pigs on their hind legs would after him prance.

As Dolly was milking her cow one day,
Tom took out his pipe and began to play;
So Doll and the cow danced "the Cheshire round,"
Till the pail was broke and the milk ran on the ground.

He met old dame Trot with a basket of eggs,
He used his pipes and she used her legs;
She danced about till the eggs were all broke,
She began for to fret, but he laughed at the joke.

He saw a cross fellow was beating an ass,
Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes, and glass;
He took out his pipe and played them a tune,
And the jackass's load was lightened full soon.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD

My dear, you must know that a long time ago,
Two poor little children whose names I don't know,
Were stolen away on a fine summer's day,
And left in a wood, as I've heard people say.Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood.

And when it was night, so sad was their plight,
The sun it went down, and the stars gave no light.
They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried,
And the poor little things they lay down and died.

And when they were dead, the robins so red,
Brought strawberry leaves, and over them spread.
And all the day long, the branches among,
They sang to them softly, and this was their song:Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood.

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of the horse, the rider was lost;
For want of the rider, the battle was lost;
For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost;
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail!

A MAN OF WORDS

A man of words and not of deeds
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.

The first stanza of this jingle was long attributed
to Longfellow as an impromptu made
on one of his children. He took occasion
to deny this, as well as the authorship of the
almost equally famous "Mr. Finney had a
turnip." The last two stanzas bear evidence
of a more sophisticated origin than
that of real nursery rhymes. Mr. Lucas,
in his Book of Verses for Children, gives two
different versions of these stanzas.

JEMIMA

There was a little girl, and she had a little curl,Right down the middle of her forehead,
When she was good, she was very, very good,But when she was bad, she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs, while her parents, unawares,In the kitchen down below were occupied with meals,
And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed,And she then began hurraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys,A playing at a combat in the attic,
But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there,She took and she did whip her most emphatic!

The following was one of the favorite "toy-book"
texts of the eighteenth century. These
little books generally had a crude woodcut
and one stanza of text on a page. It can
be seen how easily this story lends itself to
illustration. Each stanza is a chapter, and
the story-teller could continue as long as
his inventiveness held out. In one edition
there are these additional lines:

"Old Mother Hubbard sat down in a chair,
And danced her dog to a delicate air;
She went to the garden to buy him a pippin,
When she came back the dog was a-skipping."

MOTHER HUBBARD AND
HER DOG

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there,
The cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker'sTo buy him some bread;
But when she came back,The poor dog was dead.

She went to the joiner'sTo buy him a coffin;
But when she came back,The poor dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish,To get him some tripe;
But when she came backHe was smoking his pipe.

She went to the fishmonger'sTo buy him some fish;
And when she came backHe was licking the dish.

She went to the ale-houseTo get him some beer;
But when she came backThe dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavernFor white wine and red;
But when she came backThe dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter'sTo buy him a hat;
But when she came back[42]He was feeding the cat.

She went to the barber'sTo buy him a wig;
But when she came backHe was dancing a jig.

She went to the fruiterer'sTo buy him some fruit;
But when she came back,He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor'sTo buy him a coat;
But when she came back,He was riding a goat.

She went to the cobbler'sTo buy him some shoes;
But when she came back,He was reading the news.

She went to the seamstressTo buy him some linen;
But when she came back,The dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier'sTo buy him some hose;
But when she came back,He was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsy,The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant,"The dog said, "Bow, wow."

This story of a bird courtship and marriage
with its attendant feast and tragedy, all
followed by the long dirge of No. 142, constitutes
one of the longest nursery novels.
Its opportunities for the illustrator are very
marked, and a copy illustrated by the
children themselves would be an addition
to the joy of any schoolroom.

THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE,
AND PICNIC DINNER
OF COCK ROBIN AND
JENNY WREN;

TO WHICH IS ADDED

THE DOLEFUL DEATH OF COCK ROBIN

It was a merry timeWhen Jenny Wren was young,
So neatly as she danced,And so sweetly as she sung,
Robin Redbreast lost his heart:He was a gallant bird;
He doft his hat to Jenny,And thus to her he said:—

"My dearest Jenny Wren,If you will but be mine,
You shall dine on cherry pie,And drink nice currant wine.
I'll dress you like a Goldfinch,Or like a Peacock gay;
So if you'll have me, Jenny,Let us appoint the day."

Jenny blushed behind her fan,And thus declared her mind:
"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob,I take your offer kind—
Cherry pie is very good!So is currant wine!
But I will wear my brown gown,And never dress too fine."

Robin rose up earlyAt the break of day;
He flew to Jenny Wren's house,To sing a roundelay.
He met the Cock and Hen,And bid the Cock declare,
This was his wedding-day[43]With Jenny Wren, the fair.

The Cock then blew his horn,To let the neighbors know,
This was Robin's wedding-day,And they might see the show.
And first came parson Rook,With his spectacles and band,
And one of Mother Hubbard's booksHe held within his hand.

Then followed him the Lark,For he could sweetly sing,
And he was to be clerkAt Cock Robin's wedding.
He sang of Robin's loveFor little Jenny Wren;
And when he came unto the end,Then he began again.

Then came the bride and bridegroom;Quite plainly was she dressed,
And blushed so much, her cheeks wereAs red as Robin's breast.
But Robin cheered her up:"My pretty Jen," said he,
"We're going to be marriedAnd happy we shall be."

The Goldfinch came on next,To give away the bride;
The Linnet, being bride's maid,Walked by Jenny's side;
And, as she was a-walking,She said, "Upon my word,
I think that your Cock RobinIs a very pretty bird."

The Bullfinch walked by Robin,And thus to him did say,
"Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast,That Goldfinch, dressed so gay;
What though her gay apparelBecomes her very well,
Yet Jenny's modest dress and lookMust bear away the bell."

The Blackbird and the Thrush,And charming Nightingale,
Whose sweet jug sweetly echoesThrough every grove and dale;
The Sparrow and Tom Tit,And many more, were there:
All came to see the weddingOf Jenny Wren, the fair.

"O then," says parson Rook,"Who gives this maid away?"
"I do," says the Goldfinch,"And her fortune I will pay:
Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,And other things beside;
Now happy be the bridegroom,And happy be the bride!"

"And will you have her, Robin,To be your wedded wife?"
"Yes, I will," says Robin,"And love her all my life."
"And will you have him, Jenny,Your husband now to be?"
"Yes, I will," says Jenny,"And love him heartily."

Then on her finger fairCock Robin put the ring;
"You're married now," says parson Rook,While the Lark aloud did sing:
"Happy be the bridegroom,And happy be the bride!
And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,This happy pair divide."

The birds were asked to dine;Not Jenny's friends alone,
But every pretty songsterThat had Cock Robin known.
They had a cherry pie,Besides some currant wine,
And every guest brought something,[44]That sumptuous they might dine.

Now they all sat or stoodTo eat and to drink;
And every one said whatHe happened to think;
They each took a bumper,And drank to the pair:
Cock Robin, the bridegroom,And Jenny Wren, the fair.

The dinner-things removed,They all began to sing;
And soon they made the placeNear a mile round to ring.
The concert it was fine;And every bird tried
Who best could sing for RobinAnd Jenny Wren, the bride.

Then in came the Cuckoo,And he made a great rout:
He caught hold of Jenny,And pulled her about.
Cock Robin was angry,And so was the Sparrow,
Who fetched in a hurryHis bow and his arrow.

His aim then he took,But he took it not right;
His skill was not good,Or he shot in a fright;
For the Cuckoo he missed,But Cock Robin killed!—
And all the birds mournedThat his blood was so spilled.

The following tale was edited (1885) for children
by John Ruskin from a version "written
principally by a lady of ninety (Mrs.
Sharp.)" Ruskin himself added the third,
fourth, eighth, and ninth stanzas, because
"in the old books no account is given of
what the cats learned when they went to
school, and I thought my younger readers
might be glad of some notice of such
particulars." But he thought his rhymes
did not ring like the real ones, of which he
said: "I aver these rhymes to possess the
primary value of rhyme—that is, to be
rhythmical in a pleasant and exemplary
degree." The book was illustrated with
quaint woodcuts for each stanza after the
edition of 1823, with additional drawings
for the four new stanzas by Kate Greenaway,
one of the most famous illustrators
of children's books. Ruskin commends the
result "to the indulgence of the Christmas
fireside, because it relates nothing that is
sad, and portrays nothing that is ugly."

DAME WIGGINS OF LEE, AND
HER SEVEN WONDERFUL CATS

Dame Wiggins of Lee
Was a worthy old soul,
As e'er threaded a nee-
dle, or wash'd in a bowl;
She held mice and rats
In such antipa-thy,
That seven fine cats
Kept Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The rats and mice scared
By this fierce whisker'd crew,
The poor seven cats
Soon had nothing to do;
So, as any one idle
She ne'er loved to see,
She sent them to school,
Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The Master soon wrote
That they all of them knew
How to read the word "milk"
And to spell the word "mew."
And they all washed their faces
Before they took tea:
"Were there ever such dears!"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

He had also thought well
To comply with their wish
To spend all their play-time
In learning to fish
For stitlings; they sent her
A present of three,
Which, fried, were a feast
For Dame Wiggins of Lee.

But soon she grew tired
Of living alone;
So she sent for her cats
From school to come home.
Each rowing a wherry,
Returning you see:
The frolic made merry
Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The Dame was quite pleas'd
And ran out to market;
When she came back[46]They were mending the carpet.
The needle each handled
As brisk as a bee;
"Well done, my good cats,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

To give them a treat,
She ran out for some rice;
When she came back,
They were skating on ice.
"I shall soon see one down,
Aye, perhaps, two or three,
I'll bet half-a-crown,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

When spring-time came back
They had breakfast of curds;
And were greatly afraid
Of disturbing the birds.
"If you sit, like good cats,
All the seven in a tree,
They will teach you to sing!"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

So they sat in a tree,
And said "Beautiful! Hark!"
And they listened and looked
In the clouds for the lark.
Then sang, by the fireside,
Symphonious-ly
A song without words
To Dame Wiggins of Lee.

They called the next day
On the tomtit and sparrow,
And wheeled a poor sick lamb
Home in a barrow.
"You shall all have some sprats
For your humani-ty,
My seven good cats,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

While she ran to the field,
To look for its dam,
They were warming the bed
For the poor sick lamb:
They turn'd up the clothes
All as neat as could be;
"I shall ne'er want a nurse,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

She wished them good night,
And went up to bed:
When, lo! in the morning,
The cats were all fled.
But soon—what a fuss!
"Where can they all be?
Here, pussy, puss, puss!"
Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The Dame's heart was nigh broke,
So she sat down to weep,
When she saw them come back
Each riding a sheep:
She fondled and patted
Each purring tom-my:
"Ah! welcome, my dears,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The Dame was unable
Her pleasure to smother,
To see the sick lamb
Jump up to its mother.
In spite of the gout,
And a pain in her knee,
She went dancing about:
Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.

The Farmer soon heard
Where his sheep went astray,
And arrived at Dame's door
With his faithful dog Tray.
He knocked with his crook,
And the stranger to see,
Out the window did look
Dame Wiggins of Lee.

For their kindness he had them
All drawn by his team;
And gave them some field-mice,[47]And raspberry-cream.
Said he, "All my stock
You shall presently see;
For I honor the cats
Of Dame Wiggins of Lee."

He sent his maid out
For some muffins and crumpets;
And when he turn'd round
They were blowing of trumpets.
Said he, "I suppose
She's as deaf as can be,
Or this ne'er could be borne
By Dame Wiggins of Lee."

To show them his poultry,
He turn'd them all loose,
When each nimbly leap'd
On the back of a goose,
Which frighten'd them so
That they ran to the sea,
And half-drown'd the poor cats
Of Dame Wiggins of Lee.

For the care of his lamb,
And their comical pranks,
He gave them a ham
And abundance of thanks.
"I wish you good-day,
My fine fellows," said he;
"My compliments, pray,
To Dame Wiggins of Lee."

You see them arrived
At their Dame's welcome door;
They show her their presents,
And all their good store.
"Now come in to supper,
And sit down with me;
All welcome once more,"
Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.

This is the perfect pattern of all the accumulative
stories, perhaps the best known and
most loved of children among all nursery
jingles. Halliwell thought it descended
from the mystical Hebrew hymn, "A kid, a
kid," found in the Talmud. Most commentators
since have followed his example
in calling attention to the parallel, though
scholars have insisted that the hymn referred
to is a late interpolation. The hymn opens:

"A kid, a kid, my father bought,
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.

"Then came the cat, and ate the kid,
That my father bought," etc.

Then came the dog and bit the cat, then the
staff and beat the dog, then the fire and
burned the staff, then water and quenched
the fire, then the ox and drank the water,
then the butcher and slew the ox, then the
angel of death and killed the butcher, and
the hymn concludes:

"Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!
And killed the angel of death,
That killed the butcher,
That slew the ox,
That drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid."

There is an elaborate interpretation of the
symbolism of this hymn, going back at least
as far as 1731, in which the kid denotes the
Hebrews, the father is Jehovah, the cat is
the Assyrians, the dog is the Babylonians,
the staff is the Persians, the fire is Greece
under Alexander, the water is the Roman
Empire, the ox is the Saracens, the butcher
is the crusaders, the angel of death is the
Turkish power, while the concluding accumulation
shows that God will take vengeance
on the enemies of the chosen people.
This is the interpretation in barest outline
only. Without the key no one would ever
guess its hidden meaning. Fortunately,
"The House That Jack Built" has no such[48]
hidden meaning. But the important point
is that such accumulative stories are almost
as old as human records, and, like so many
other possessions of the race, seem to have
come to us from the Far East.

THIS IS THE HOUSE
THAT JACK BUILT

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,[49]That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.

THE EGG IN THE NEST

There was a tree stood in the ground,
The prettiest tree you ever did see;
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.

And on this tree there was a limb,
The prettiest limb you ever did see;
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.

And on this limb there was a bough,
The prettiest bough you ever did see;
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.

Now on this bough there was a nest,
The prettiest nest you ever did see;
The nest on the bough, and the bough on the limb,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.

And in the nest there were some eggs,
The prettiest eggs you ever did see;
Eggs in the nest, and the nest on the bough,
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around,And the green grass growing all around.

The following story is the same as that of the
Norwegian tale "The Husband Who Was
to Mind the House" (No. 170). In the
Halliwell version the final lines read,

"If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life,
She should ne'er be ruled by he."

A later reading, now generally accepted,
avoids the bad grammar by changing to
direct discourse.

CHANGE ABOUT

There was an old man, who lived in a wood,As you may plainly see;
He said he could do as much work in a day,As his wife could do in three.
With all my heart, the old woman said,If that you will allow,
To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead,And I'll go drive the plough:

But you must milk the Tidy cow,For fear that she go dry;
And you must feed the little pigsThat are within the sty;
And you must mind the speckled hen,[50]For fear she lay away;
And you must reel the spool of yarn,That I spun yesterday.

The old woman took a staff in her hand,And went to drive the plough:
The old man took a pail in his hand,And went to milk the cow;
But Tidy hinched, and Tidy flinched,And Tidy broke his nose,
And Tidy gave him such a blow,That the blood ran down to his toes.

He went to feed the little pigsThat were within the sty;
He hit his head against the beam,And he made the blood to fly.
He went to mind the speckled hen,For fear she'd lay astray,
And he forgot the spool of yarnHis wife spun yesterday.

So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars,And the green leaves on the tree,
"If my wife doesn't do a day's work in her life,She shall ne'er be ruled by me."

SECTION III: FAIRY STORIES—TRADITIONAL TALES

INTRODUCTORY

The forty-three tales in this section have been chosen (1) in the light of what
experience shows children most enjoy, (2) to represent as fully as possible the great
variety of our traditional inheritance, (3) to afford an opportunity of calling attention
to additional riches in various collections, and (4) to suggest a fair minimum of the
amount of such material to be used with children. As in all such questions of judgment,
there must inevitably be differences of opinion. Many will doubtless find
stories missing that seem necessary even to so small a list, while others will find tales
included that may seem questionable. Such a selection can be, and is intended to
be, only tentative, a starting point from which there are many lines of departure.

Folklore. These tales are all from the traditional field. They are mainly of
anonymous and popular origin, handed down orally by peasants. The investigation
of their origin, distribution, and interrelations belongs to the science of folklore. A
good-sized library could be filled entirely with the books concerned with the studies
and disputations in this interesting field. While the folklorists have very much of
value to tell the teacher, their questions may be largely ignored until the latter is
quite fully acquainted with a large body of the acknowledged masterpieces among
folk stories, especially those which the schools have taken to themselves as useful
in elementary work. Teachers interested in pursuing the matter further—and it
is to be hoped there are many such—will find suggestions in the notes at the head of
each tale and in the preceding bibliography that may prove serviceable in directing
them some little way. Each book will point the student to many others; when he is
once started on the road of investigation, there will open up many unexpected and
fascinating vistas.

Objections to fairy tales. These objections seem to fall as a rule under two main
heads. First, there are those who object to any stimulation of the fanciful in children,
and who would have us confine ourselves to what they call realities. They would
eliminate as far as possible all the imaginings of children. The make-believe world
so dear to infancy has no place in their creed. Second, there are those who doubt
the moral tendency of all fairy tales. They observe that many of these tales come
to us from a cruder and coarser social state than our own, that they contain elements
of a superstitious and animistic past, that they often deal with cruelties and horrors,
trickeries and disloyalties, that they are full of romantic improbabilities and impossibilities.
It may as well be admitted at once that the folklore of the world contains
many stories to which these and other objections are valid.

Is there a proper line of defense for fairy tales? Dr. Felix Adler, who certainly
cannot be accused of being insensible to realities, puts the case thus, as between
defenders and objectors: "I venture to think that, as in many other cases, the cause
of the quarrel is what logicians call an undistributed middle—in other words, that[54]
the parties to the dispute have each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This
species of literature can be divided broadly into two classes—one consisting of tales
which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and children ought to be
protected from their bad influence, the other of tales which have a most beautiful
and elevating effect, and which we cannot possibly afford to leave unutilized." Dr.
Adler proceeds to point out that the chief pedagogic values of the latter class are
(1) that they exercise and cultivate the imagination, and (2) that they stimulate the
idealizing tendency.

John Ruskin, another teacher who constantly in his writings throws the emphasis
upon the necessity of a true ethical understanding, has this to say about the mischievous
habit of trying to remake the fairy story in the service of morals: "And the
effect of the endeavor to make stories moral upon the literary merit of the work
itself, is as harmful as the motive of the effort is false. For every fairy tale worth
recording at all is the remnant of a tradition possessing true historical value;—historical,
at least in so far as it has naturally arisen out of the mind of a people under
special circumstances, and arisen not without meaning, nor removed altogether from
their sphere of religious faith. It sustains afterwards natural changes from the
sincere action of the fear or fancy of successive generations; it takes new color from
their manner of life, and new form from their changing moral tempers. As long as
these changes are natural and effortless, accidental and inevitable, the story remains
essentially true, altering its form, indeed, like a flying cloud, but remaining a sign
of the sky; a shadowy image, as truly a part of the great firmament of the human
mind as the light of reason which it seems to interrupt. But the fair deceit and
innocent error of it cannot be interpreted nor restrained by a wilful purpose, and all
additions to it by art do but defile, as the shepherd disturbs the flakes of morning
mist with smoke from his fire of dead leaves." Instead of retouching stories "to
suit particular tastes, or inculcate favorite doctrines," Ruskin would have the child
"know his fairy tale accurately, and have perfect joy or awe in the conception of it
as if it were real; thus he will always be exercising his power of grasping realities:
but a confused, careless, and discrediting tenure of the fiction will lead to as confused
and careless reading of fact." Still further, Ruskin defends the vulgarity, or commonness
of language, found in many of the tales as "of a wholesome and harmless
kind. It is not, for instance, graceful English, to say that a thought 'popped into
Catherine's head'; but it nevertheless is far better, as an initiation into literary
style, that a child should be told this than that 'a subject attracted Catherine's
attention.'"

Finally, we cannot forbear adding one more quotation, from the most delightful
of attacks upon the attackers of fairy tales, by Miss Repplier: "That which is vital
in literature or tradition, which has survived the obscurity and wreckage of the past,
whether as legend, or ballad, or mere nursery rhyme, has survived in right of some
intrinsic merit of its own, and will not be snuffed out of existence by any of our precautionary
or hygienic measures. . . . Puss in Boots is one long record of triumphant
effrontery and deception. An honest and self-respecting lad would have explained to
the king that he was not the Marquis of Carabas at all; that he had no desire to[55]
profit by his cat's ingenious falsehoods, and no weak ambition to connect himself
with the aristocracy. Such a hero would be a credit to our modern schoolrooms,
and lift a load of care from the shoulders of our modern critics. Only the children
would have none of him, but would turn wistfully back to those brave old tales which
are their inheritance from a splendid past, and of which no hand shall rob them."
And upon this ultimate fact that in literature the final decision rests with the audience
appealed to, the discussion may end.

How to use fairy stories. Briefly, the whole matter may be summed up thus:
Know your story perfectly. Don't read it (unless you can't do better). Tell it—with all
the graces of voice and action you can command. Tell it naturally and simply, as the
folk-tellers did, not with studied and elaborate "elocutionary" effects. Tell it again and
again. If you do it well, the children will not soon tire of it—and they will indicate
what you should do next!

SUGGESTIONS

(Books referred to by authors' name are listed in bibliography.)

The one important full-length discussion for teachers on the whole subject of the fairy tale
is Kready's A Study of Fairy Tales. It is enthusiastic rather than severely critical, and that adds
to its helpfulness. It has exhaustive bibliographies. The Ruskin quotations above are from his
introduction to Taylor's Grimm; it may be found also in his collected works, in On the Old Road.
Miss Repplier's "Battle of the Babies" in her Essays in Miniature should be read entire. A thoroughly
stimulating article is Brian Hooker's "Narrative and the Fairy Tale," Bookman, Vol. XXXIII,
pp. 389, 501; see also his "Types of Fairy Tales," Forum, Vol. XL, p. 375. For the scientific phase
start with Hartland's Science of Fairy Tales. For pedagogy see Adler, MacClintock, McMurry.

Many English folk tales have doubtless been
lost because no one made a serious attempt
to collect them until railroads, newspapers,
and popular education had greatly changed
the life of the English folk and destroyed
many of the traditions. For the preservation
of many folk tales that we have,
English-speaking peoples are indebted to
the scholarly antiquarian James Orchard
Halliwell (afterwards Halliwell-Phillips,
1820-1889), who in the year 1842 edited a
collection of The Nursery Rhymes of England
for the Percy Society. He followed it a few
years later with Popular Rhymes and Nursery
Tales. They have long been regarded
as the basic books in their field. These
two collections were reprinted as Nursery
Rhymes and Tales. This one-volume edition
is the one referred to in the following
pages. Halliwell should be remembered as
the first person to collect in a scientific way
the folk literature of England. He gathered
these rhymes and tales from the mouths
of the folk, from chapbooks, and from many
other sources and endeavored to tell them
as they had been told by the folk.

"The Old Woman and Her Pig" is perhaps
the most familiar of all nursery stories. It
belongs to the type of story known as the
"accumulative," of which "The House That
Jack Built" is the purest model. In such
a story there is a constant repetition of the
plot, with an addition or slight change at
each repetition, until at the end there is a
quick unwinding which carries us back to
the initial situation and solves the difficulty
with which the story started. Halliwell
gives two versions of this particular story.
It is so widespread that many slight variations
would be expected in successful
retellings of it. The traditional version
which follows seems to be the favorite with
primary teachers. It introduces at the
sixth stage the attractive rhyme "I see
by the moonlight, etc.," which originally
formed part of another nursery tale.

THE OLD WOMAN AND
HER PIG

Once upon a time, an old woman was
sweeping her little house, when, to her
great joy, she found a silver sixpence.

"What," said she, "shall I do with
this little sixpence? I think I will go
to market and buy a pig." So the next
day, she went to market, and bought a
nice little white pig. She tied a string
to one of the pig's legs, and began to
drive him home.

On the way, the old woman and her
pig came to a stile, and she said,—

"Please, pig, get over the stile."But the pig would not.

Just then a little dog came trotting up,
and the old woman said to him,—

"Dog, dog, bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."But the dog would not.

So the old woman held up her stick,
and said,—

"Stick, stick, beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."But the stick would not.

So the old woman gathered some bits
of wood together to make a fire, and set
them on fire, and then threw her stick
into the fire, and said,—

"Fire, fire, burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."But the fire would not.

So the old woman fetched a pail of
water that was standing near, and said,[57]—

"Water, water, quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."But the water would not.

Then the old woman saw an ox coming;
so she said,—

"Ox, ox, drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."But the ox would not.

So the old woman turned round, and
saw a butcher, and she said,—

"Butcher, butcher, kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."But the butcher would not.

So the old woman put her hand in her
pocket, and found a nice piece of cheese;
and when the mouse had eaten it,

The mouse began to gnaw the rope,
The rope began to hang the butcher,
The butcher began to kill the ox,
The ox began to drink the water,
The water began to quench the fire,
The fire began to burn the stick,
The stick began to beat the dog,
The dog began to bite the pig,
And the pig began to go.

But what time the old woman and her
pig got home, you, nor I, nor nobody
knows[58].

Teachers and parents owe a greater debt of
gratitude to Joseph Jacobs than to any
other modern student of folklore. He was
born in Australia in 1854, spent most of
his life in scholarly pursuits in England, and
died in America in 1916. In his six volumes
of English, Celtic, Indian, and European
fairy tales he gave the world versions of its
best known and most representative folk
stories in a form suited to children while
remaining true in all essentials to the original
oral versions of the folk. This combination
of scientific accuracy and literary
workmanship is very rare. In the introductions
and notes to these various volumes
may be found a wealth of information
which the general reader can understand
without the necessity of special training
in the science of folklore. And best of all,
these volumes can be had at prices that are
comparatively cheap.

The following story of "Henny-Penny" is
given in the fine version by Joseph Jacobs
in his English Fairy Tales. He heard it as
a child in Australia and he thinks "the fun
consists in the avoidance of all pronouns,
which results in jawbreaking sentences."
This story is also very familiar in the Halliwell
version called "Chicken-Licken," and
there are numerous European parallels.

HENNY-PENNY

One day Henny-penny was picking up
corn in the cornyard when—whack!—something
hit her upon the head. "Goodness gracious me!" said Henny-penny;
"the sky's a-going to fall; I
must go and tell the king."

So she went along, and she went along,
and she went along till she met Cocky-locky.
"Where are you going, Henny-penny?"
says Cocky-locky. "Oh! I'm
going to tell the king the sky's a-falling,"
says Henny-penny. "May I come with
you?" says Cocky-locky. "Certainly,"
says Henny-penny. So Henny-penny
and Cocky-locky went to tell the king
the sky was a-falling.

They went along, and they went along,
and they went along, till they met Ducky-daddles.
"Where are you going to,
Henny-penny and Cocky-locky?" says
Ducky-daddles. "Oh! we're going to
tell the king the sky's a-falling," said
Henny-penny and Cocky-locky. "May
I come with you?" says Ducky-daddles.
"Certainly," said Henny-penny and
Cocky-locky. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
and Ducky-daddles went to tell
the king the sky was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went
along, and they went along, till they met
Goosey-poosey. "Where are you going
to, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and
Ducky-daddles?" said Goosey-poosey.
"Oh! we're going to tell the king the
sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny and
Cocky-locky and Ducky-daddles. "May
I come with you?" said Goosey-poosey.
"Certainly," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
and Ducky-daddles. So Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and
Goosey-poosey went to tell the king the
sky was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went
along, and they went along, till they
met Turkey-lurkey. "Where are you
going, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
and Goosey-poosey?" says
Turkey-lurkey. "Oh! we're going to tell
the king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and
Goosey-poosey. "May I come with
you, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
and Goosey-poosey?" said
Turkey-lurkey. "Oh, certainly, Turkey-lurkey,"
said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey. So
Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-[59]daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey
all went to tell the king the sky
was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went
along, and they went along, till they
met Foxy-woxy, and Foxy-woxy said
to Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey:
"Where are you going, Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey?"
And Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey
said to Foxy-woxy: "We're going
to tell the king the sky's a-falling." "Oh!
but this is not the way to the king, Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey," says
Foxy-woxy; "I know the proper way;
shall I show it you?" "Oh, certainly,
Foxy-woxy," said Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey,
and Turkey-lurkey. So Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey,
Turkey-lurkey, and Foxy-woxy
all went to tell the king the sky was
a-falling.

So they went along, and they went
along, and they went along, till they
came to a narrow and dark hole. Now
this was the door of Foxy-woxy's cave.
But Foxy-woxy said to Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey,
and Turkey-lurkey: "This is
the short way to the king's palace;
you'll soon get there if you follow me.
I will go first and you come after,
Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey."
"Why of course, certainly,
without doubt, why not?" said Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey.

So Foxy-woxy went into his cave,
and he didn't go very far, but turned
round to wait for Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey,
and Turkey-lurkey. So at last at first
Turkey-lurkey went through the dark
hole into the cave. He hadn't got far
when "Hrumph," Foxy-woxy snapped off
Turkey-lurkey's head and threw his
body over his left shoulder. Then
Goosey-poosey went in, and "Hrumph,"
off went her head and Goosey-poosey was
thrown beside Turkey-lurkey. Then
Ducky-daddles waddled down, and
"Hrumph," snapped Foxy-woxy, and
Ducky-daddles' head was off and Ducky-daddles
was thrown alongside Turkey-lurkey
and Goosey-poosey. Then Cocky-locky
strutted down into the cave, and
he hadn't gone far when "Snap,
Hrumph!" went Foxy-woxy and Cocky-locky
was thrown alongside of Turkey-lurkey,
Goosey-poosey, and Ducky-daddles.

But Foxy-woxy had made two bites
at Cocky-locky, and when the first snap
only hurt Cocky-locky, but didn't kill
him, he called out to Henny-penny. But
she turned tail and off she ran home, so
she never told the king the sky was
a-falling.

The favorite story of "Teeny-Tiny" is taken
from Halliwell, who obtained it from oral
tradition, and by whom it was, apparently,
first put into print. "This simple tale,"
he says, "seldom fails to rivet the attention
of children, especially if well told. The last
two words should be said loudly with a
start." Many modern story-tellers seem to
prefer modified forms of this story, presumably
owing to a feeling on their part that
the bone and the churchyard have gruesome
suggestions. Carolyn S. Bailey gives
one of the best of these modified forms in her[60]Firelight Stories, where the woman goes
into a field instead of the churchyard, finds
a hen at the foot of a tree, thinks this is a
chance to have an egg for her breakfast,
puts the hen in her reticule, goes home, puts
the hen in her cupboard, and goes upstairs
to take a nap. Of course the "teeny-tiny"
goes in at every point. Substituting
"hen" for "bone," the story continues
substantially as given below.

TEENY-TINY

Once upon a time there was a teeny-tiny
woman lived in a teeny-tiny house
in a teeny-tiny village. Now, one day
this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny
bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny
house to take a teeny-tiny walk.
And when this teeny-tiny woman had
gone a teeny-tiny way, she came to a
teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman
opened the teeny-tiny gate, and went
into a teeny-tiny churchyard. And when
this teeny-tiny woman had got into the
teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a teeny-tiny
bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the
teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny
self, "This teeny-tiny bone will
make me some teeny-tiny soup for my
teeny-tiny supper." So the teeny-tiny
woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her
teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to
her teeny-tiny house.

Now when the teeny-tiny woman got
home to her teeny-tiny house, she was
a teeny-tiny tired; so she went up her
teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed,
and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny
cupboard. And when this teeny-tiny
woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny
time, she was awakened by a teeny-tiny
voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard,
which said:

"GIVE ME MY BONE!"

And this teeny-tiny woman was a
teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her
teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny
clothes and went to sleep again. And
when she had been to sleep again a
teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice
again cried out from the teeny-tiny
cupboard a teeny-tiny louder,

"GIVE ME MY BONE!"

This made the teeny-tiny woman a
teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid
her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny farther
under the teeny-tiny clothes. And when
the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep
again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny
voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said
again a teeny-tiny louder,

"GIVE ME MY BONE!"

And this teeny-tiny woman was a
teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she
put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny
clothes, and said in her loudest
teeny-tiny voice,

The very old story that follows is taken from
Halliwell, and is, according to Jacobs,
scarcely more than a variant of "The Old
Woman and Her Pig." Like that story,
"The Cat and the Mouse" appeals to small
people by its pronounced rhythmical structure,
accentuated by the rhyme which
marks the transition to each new section,
and by the "run" at the close.

THE CAT AND THE MOUSE

"No," said the cat, "I'll not give you
your tail till you go to the cow and fetch
me some milk."

First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the cow, and thus began:

"Pray, cow, give me milk, that I
may give cat milk, that cat may give
me my own tail again."

"No," said the cow, "I will give you
no milk till you go to the farmer and
fetch me some hay."

First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the farmer, and thus began:

"Pray, farmer, give me hay, that I
may give cow hay, that cow may give
me milk, that I may give cat milk, that
cat may give me my own tail again."

"No," said the farmer, "I'll give you
no hay till you go to the butcher and
fetch me some meat."

First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the butcher, and thus began:

"Pray, butcher, give me meat, that
I may give farmer meat, that farmer
may give me hay, that I may give cow
hay, that cow may give me milk, that I
may give cat milk, that cat may give
me my own tail again."

"No," said the butcher, "I'll give
you no meat till you go to the baker
and fetch me some bread."

First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the baker, and thus began:

"Pray, baker, give me bread, that I
may give butcher bread, that butcher
may give me meat, that I may give
farmer meat, that farmer may give me
hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow
may give me milk, that I may give cat
milk, that cat may give me my own tail
again."

"Yes," said the baker, "I'll give you some bread,
But if you eat my meal, I'll cut off your head."

Then the baker gave mouse bread, and
mouse gave butcher bread, and butcher
gave mouse meat, and mouse gave
farmer meat, and farmer gave mouse
hay, and mouse gave cow hay, and cow
gave mouse milk, and mouse gave cat
milk, and cat gave mouse her own tail
again.

The following story is in the most familiar
version of Halliwell's collection. Another
much-used form of the story may be found
in Lang's Green Fairy Book, in which the
pigs are distinctly characterized and given
the names of Browny, Whitey, and Blacky.
Jacobs uses the Halliwell version in his
English Fairy Tales, but prefixes to it an
opening formula which seems to have been
much in use by old story-tellers as a way of
beginning almost any oral story for children:

"Once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme
And monkeys chewed tobacco,
And hens took snuff to make them tough,
And ducks went quack, quack, quack, O!"

THE STORY OF THE THREE
LITTLE PIGS

Once upon a time there was an old
sow with three little pigs, and as she
had not enough to keep them, she sent
them out to seek their fortune. The
first that went off met a man with a
bundle of straw, and said to him:

"Please, man, give me that straw to
build me a house."

Which the man did, and the little pig
built a house with it. Presently came
along a wolf, and knocked at the door,
and said:[62]

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

To which the pig answered:

"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin
chin."

The wolf then answered to that:

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll
blow your house in."

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he
blew his house in, and ate up the little
pig.

The second little pig met a man with a
bundle of furze and said:

"Please, man, give me that furze to
build a house."

Which the man did, and the pig built
his house. Then along came the wolf,
and said:

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin
chin."

"Then I'll puff, and I'll huff, and I'll
blow your house in."

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he
puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew
the house down, and he ate up the little
pig.

The third little pig met a man with a
load of bricks, and said:

"Please, man, give me those bricks
to build a house with."

So the man gave him the bricks, and
he built his house with them. So the
wolf came, as he did to the other little
pigs, and said:

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."

"No, no, by the hair on my chinny chin
chin."

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll
blow your house in."

Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he
huffed and he puffed, and he puffed and
huffed; but he could not get the house
down. When he found that he could
not, with all his huffing and puffing, blow
the house down, he said:

"Little pig, I know where there is a
nice field of turnips."

"Where?" said the little pig.

"Oh, in Mr. Smith's Home-field, and
if you will be ready to-morrow morning I
will call for you, and we will go together
and get some for dinner."

"Very well," said the little pig, "I will
be ready. What time do you mean to
go?"

"Oh, at six o'clock."

Well, the little pig got up at five and
got the turnips before the wolf came
(which he did about six), who said:

"Little pig, are you ready?"

The little pig said: "Ready! I have
been and come back again, and got a
nice potful for dinner."

The wolf felt very angry at this, but
thought that he would be up to the little
pig somehow or other, so he said:

"Little pig, I know where there is a
nice apple-tree."

"Where?" said the pig.

"Down at Merry-garden," replied the
wolf, "and if you will not deceive me I
will come for you at five o'clock tomorrow
and we will go together and get
some apples."

Well, the little pig bustled up the next
morning at four o'clock, and went off for
the apples, hoping to get back before the
wolf came; but he had farther to go and
had to climb the tree, so that just as he
was coming down from it, he saw the
wolf coming, which, as you may suppose,
frightened him very much. When the
wolf came up he said:

And he threw it so far that, while the
wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig
jumped down and ran home. The next
day the wolf came again and said to the
little pig:

"Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin
this afternoon. Will you go?"

"Oh, yes," said the pig, "I will go.
What time shall you be ready?"

"At three," said the wolf. So the
little pig went off before the time as usual,
and got to the fair and bought a butter-churn,
which he was going home with,
when he saw the wolf coming. Then he
could not tell what to do. So he got into
the churn to hide, and by so doing
turned it round, and it rolled down the
hill with the pig in it, which frightened the
wolf so much that he ran home without
going to the fair. He went to the little
pig's house and told him how frightened
he had been by a great round thing which
came down the hill past him. Then the
little pig said:

"Hah, I frightened you, then. I had
been to the fair and bought a butter-churn,
and when I saw you, I got into it
and rolled down the hill."

Then the wolf was very angry indeed,
and declared he would eat up the little
pig and that he would get down the chimney
after him. When the little pig saw
what he was about, he hung on the pot
full of water and made up a blazing fire,
and, just as the wolf was coming down,
took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so
the little pig put on the cover again in
an instant, boiled him up, and ate him
for supper, and lived happy ever afterwards.

How great calamities sometimes grow out
of small causes is illustrated in an old
proverbial saying of Poor Richard (see
No. 137). The favorite English folk-tale
version of this theme, taken from Halliwell,
is given below. It takes the form of an
accumulative droll, or comic story. The
overwhelming catastrophe at the end is so
complete and so unexpected that it has a
decidedly humorous effect.

TITTY MOUSE AND TATTY MOUSE

Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse both lived in a house,Titty Mouse went a leasing and Tatty Mouse went a leasing,
So they both went a leasing.

Titty Mouse leased an ear of corn, andTatty Mouse leased an ear of corn,
So they both leased an ear of corn.

Titty Mouse made a pudding, andTatty Mouse made a pudding,
So they both made a pudding.

And Tatty Mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil,But when Titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and scalded her to death.

Then Tatty sat down and wept; then
a three-legged stool said: "Tatty, why
do you weep?" "Titty's dead," said
Tatty, "and so I weep." "Then," said
the stool, "I'll hop," so the stool hopped.

Then a broom in the corner of the room
said: "Stool, why do you hop?" "Oh!"
said the stool, "Titty's dead, and Tatty
weeps, and so I hop." "Then," said the
broom, "I'll sweep," so the broom began
to sweep.

"Then," said the door, "Broom, why
do you sweep?" "Oh!" said the broom,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the
stool hops, and so I sweep." "Then,"
said the door, "I'll jar," so the door
jarred.[64]

"Then," said the window, "Door, why
do you jar?" "Oh," said the door,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the
stool hops, and the broom sweeps, and
so I jar."

"Then," said the window, "I'll creak,"
so the window creaked. Now there was
an old form outside the house, and when
the window creaked, the form said:
"Window, why do you creak?" "Oh!"
said the window, "Titty's dead, and
Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the
broom sweeps, the door jars, and so I
creak."

"Then," said the old form, "I'll run
round the house"; then the old form ran
round the house. Now there was a fine
large walnut-tree growing by the cottage,
and the tree said to the form: "Form,
why do you run round the house?"
"Oh!" said the form, "Titty's dead, and
Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the
broom sweeps, the door jars, and the
window creaks, and so I run round the
house."

"Then," said the walnut-tree, "I'll
shed my leaves," so the walnut-tree shed
all its beautiful green leaves. Now there
was a little bird perched on one of the
boughs of the tree, and when all the
leaves fell, it said: "Walnut-tree, why
do you shed your leaves?" "Oh!" said
the tree, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps,
the stool hops, and the broom sweeps,
the door jars, and the window creaks, the
old form runs round the house, and so
I shed my leaves."

"Then," said the little bird, "I'll
moult all my feathers," so he moulted
all his pretty feathers. Now there was
a little girl walking below, carrying a jug
of milk for her brothers' and sisters' supper,
and when she saw the poor little
bird moult all its feathers, she said:
"Little bird, why do you moult all your
feathers?" "Oh!" said the little bird,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the
stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the
door jars, and the window creaks, the
old form runs round the house, the
walnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so I
moult all my feathers."

"Then," said the little girl, "I'll spill
the milk," so she dropt the pitcher and
spilt the milk. Now there was an old
man just by on the top of a ladder
thatching a rick, and when he saw the
little girl spill the milk, he said: "Little
girl, what do you mean by spilling the
milk?—your little brothers and sisters
must go without their supper." Then
said the little girl: "Titty's dead, and
Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the
broom sweeps, the door jars, and the
window creaks, the old form runs round
the house, the walnut-tree sheds all its
leaves, the little bird moults all its
feathers, and so I spill the milk."

"Oh!" said the old man, "then I'll
tumble off the ladder and break my
neck," so he tumbled off the ladder and
broke his neck; and when the old man
broke his neck, the great walnut-tree
fell down with a crash and upset the old
form and house, and the house falling
knocked the window out, and the window
knocked the door down, and the door
upset the broom, and the broom upset
the stool, and poor little Tatty Mouse
was buried beneath the ruins.

"The Story of the Three Bears" is perhaps
the only instance in which a piece of literature
by a known English author is found
among accepted folk tales. It appeared in
Robert Southey's rambling miscellany,
The Doctor (1837). He may have taken it[65]
from an old tale, but no amount of investigation
has located any certain source. In
the most familiar versions the naughty old
woman gives place to a little girl whose
name is Goldenhair, Goldilocks, Silverhair,
or Silverlocks. The point to the story is
lessened by the change, but the popularity
of these modifications seems to suggest that
children prefer to have the ill-mannered old
woman turned into an attractive little girl.
Southey apparently was delighted with
efforts to bring his story into any form more
pleasing to the folk, and we find his son-in-law
saying that he was especially pleased
with a versification "by G. N. and published
especially for the amusement of 'little
people' lest in the volumes of The Doctor
it should 'escape their sight.'" However,
it would appear that teachers at least should
know this masterpiece in the only form in
which its author put it. To that end this
version of "The Three Bears" follows
Southey with the change of a single word.
At the head of the story he placed these
lines from Gascoyne:

"A tale which may content the minds
Of learned men and grave philosophers."

THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS

ROBERT SOUTHEY

Once upon a time there were Three
Bears who lived together in a house of
their own in a wood. One of them was a
Little, Small, Wee Bear; and one was a
Middle-sized Bear, and the other was a
Great, Huge Bear. They had each a
pot for their porridge; a little pot for the
Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized
pot for the Middle Bear; and a
great pot for the Great, Huge Bear.
And they had each a chair to sit in; a
little chair for the Little, Small, Wee
Bear; and a middle-sized chair for the
Middle Bear; and a great chair for the
Great, Huge Bear. And they had each
a bed to sleep in; a little bed for the
Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized
bed for the Middle Bear; and a great
bed for the Great, Huge Bear.

One day after they had made the porridge
for their breakfast and poured it
into their porridge-pots, they walked out
into the wood while the porridge was
cooling, that they might not burn their
mouths by beginning too soon to eat it.
And while they were walking, a little old
Woman came to the house. She could
not have been a good, honest old Woman;
for first she looked in at the window and
then she peeped in at the keyhole; and
seeing nobody in the house, she lifted the
latch. The door was not fastened, because
the Bears were good Bears, who did
nobody any harm and never suspected
that anybody would harm them. So the
little old Woman opened the door and
went in, and well pleased she was when
she saw the porridge on the table. If
she had been a good little old Woman,
she would have waited till the Bears
came home, and then perhaps they would
have asked her to breakfast, for they were
good Bears—a little rough or so, as the
manner of Bears is, but for all that very
good-natured and hospitable. But she
was an impudent, bad old Woman, and
set about helping herself.

So first she tasted the porridge of the
Great, Huge Bear, and that was too hot
for her; and she said a bad word about
that. And then she tasted the porridge
of the Middle Bear, and that was too cold
for her; and she said a bad word about
that too. And then she went to the porridge
of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and
tasted that; and that was neither too hot
nor too cold, but just right; and she liked
it so well that she ate it all up. But the
naughty old Woman said a bad word[66]
about the little porridge-pot because it
did not hold enough for her.

Then the little old Woman sat down in
the chair of the Great, Huge Bear, and
that was too hard for her. And then she
sat down in the chair of the Middle
Bear, and that was too soft for her.
And then she sat down in the chair of
the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and that was
neither too hard nor too soft, but just
right. So she seated herself in it, and
there she sat till the bottom of the chair
came out, and down she came, plump
upon the ground. And the naughty old
Woman said a wicked word about that too.

Then the little old Woman went upstairs
into the bed-chamber in which the
three Bears slept. And first she lay down
upon the bed of the Great, Huge Bear;
but that was too high at the head for her.
And next she lay down upon the bed of
the Middle Bear, and that was too high
at the foot for her. And then she lay
down upon the bed of the Little, Small,
Wee Bear, and that was neither too high
at the head nor at the foot, but just
right. So she covered herself up comfortably
and lay there till she fell fast
asleep.

By this time the Three Bears thought
their porridge would be cool enough, so
they came home to breakfast. Now the
little old Woman had left the spoon of
the Great, Huge Bear standing in his
porridge.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY
PORRIDGE!" said the Great, Huge
Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.
And when the Middle Bear looked at his,
he saw that the spoon was standing in it
too. They were wooden spoons; if they
had been silver ones, the naughty old
Woman would have put them in her
pocket.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY
PORRIDGE!" said the Middle Bear,
in his middle voice.

Then the Little, Small, Wee Bear
looked at his, and there was the spoon
in the porridge-pot, but the porridge was
all gone.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE, AND
HAS EATEN IT ALL UP!" said the Little, Small,
Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice.

Upon this the Three Bears, seeing that
some one had entered their house and
eaten up the Little, Small, Wee Bear's
breakfast, began to look about them.
Now the little old Woman had not put
the hard cushion straight when she rose
from the chair of the Great, Huge Bear.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING
IN MY CHAIR!" said the
Great, Huge Bear, in his great, rough,
gruff voice.

And the little old Woman had squatted
down the soft cushion of the Middle
Bear.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN
MY CHAIR!" said the Middle Bear, in
his middle voice.

And you know what the little old
Woman had done to the third chair.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR
AND HAS SAT THE BOTTOM OUT OF IT!" said
the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his little,
small, wee voice.

Then the three Bears thought it necessary
that they should make further
search; so they went upstairs into their
bed-chamber. Now the little old Woman
had pulled the pillow of the Great, Huge
Bear out of its place.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING
IN MY BED!" said the Great, Huge
Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.

And the little old Woman had pulled[67]
the bolster of the Middle Bear out of its
place.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY
BED!" said the Middle Bear, in his
middle voice.

And when the Little, Small, Wee Bear
came to look at his bed, there was the
bolster in its right place, and the pillow
in its place upon the bolster; and upon
the pillow was the little old Woman's
ugly, dirty head,—which was not in its
place, for she had no business there.

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED,—AND
HERE SHE IS!" said the Little,
Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee
voice.

The little old Woman had heard in her
sleep the great, rough, gruff voice of the
Great, Huge Bear; but she was so fast
asleep that it was no more to her than
the roaring of wind or the rumbling of
thunder. And she had heard the middle
voice of the Middle Bear, but it was only
as if she had heard some one speaking in
a dream. But when she heard the little,
small, wee voice of the Little, Small,
Wee Bear, it was so sharp and so shrill
that it awakened her at once. Up she
started; and when she saw the Three
Bears on one side of the bed, she tumbled
herself out at the other and ran to the
window. Now the window was open,
because the Bears, like good, tidy Bears
as they were, always opened their bed-chamber
window when they got up in
the morning. Out the little old Woman
jumped; and whether she broke her neck
in the fall, or ran into the wood and was
lost there, or found her way out of the
wood and was taken up by the constable
and sent to the House of Correction for a
vagrant, as she was, I cannot tell. But
the Three Bears never saw anything more
of her.

A noodle story is a droll, or comic story, that
follows the fortunes of very simple or stupid
characters. There are many noodle stories
among the favorites of the folk, and the
three immediately following are among
the best known. This version of "The
Three Sillies" was collected from oral
tradition in Suffolk, England. In the
original the dangerous tool was an ax, but
the collector informed Mr. Hartland, in
whose English Fairy and Folk Tales it is
reprinted, that she had found it was really
"a great big wooden mallet, as some one
had left sticking there when they'd been
making-up the beer." This change, following
the example of Jacobs, is made in the
text of the story. This particular droll is
widespread. Grimms' "Clever Elsie" is the
same story, and a French version, "The Six
Sillies," is in Lang's Red Fairy Book. A
very fine Italian version, called "Bastienelo,"
is given in Crane's Italian Popular
Tales. The tendency of people to "borrow
trouble" is so universal that stories illustrating
its ludicrous consequences have
always had wide appeal. Some details of
these variants are due to local environments.
For instance, in the Italian story
wine takes the place of beer, and it has
been pointed out that there are "borrowing
trouble" stories found in New York and
Ohio in which the thing feared is the heavy
iron door closing the mouth of the oven
which in pioneer days was built in by the
side of the fireplace.

THE THREE SILLIES

Once upon a time there was a farmer
and his wife who had one daughter, and
she was courted by a gentleman. Every
evening he used to come and see her,
and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and
the daughter used to be sent down into
the cellar to draw the beer for supper.
So one evening she had gone down to
draw the beer, and she happened to look[68]
up at the ceiling while she was drawing,
and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the
beams. It must have been there a long,
long time, but somehow or other she had
never noticed it before, and she began
a-thinking. And she thought it was very
dangerous to have that mallet there, for
she said to herself: "Suppose him and
me was to be married, and we was to
have a son, and he was to grow up to be
a man, and come down into the cellar
to draw the beer, like as I'm doing now,
and the mallet was to fall on his head
and kill him, what a dreadful thing it
would be!" And she put down the
candle and the jug, and sat herself down
and began a-crying.

Well, they began to wonder upstairs
how it was that she was so long drawing
the beer, and her mother went down to
see after her, and she found her sitting
on the settle crying, and the beer running
over the floor. "Why, whatever is the
matter?" said her mother.

"Oh, mother!" says she, "look at that
horrid mallet! Suppose we was to be
married, and was to have a son, and he
was to grow up, and was to come down
to the cellar to draw the beer, and the
mallet was to fall on his head and kill
him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"

"Dear, dear! what a dreadful thing it
would be!" said the mother, and she sat
her down aside of the daughter and
started a-crying too.

Then after a bit the father began to
wonder that they didn't come back,
and he went down into the cellar to look
after them himself, and there they two
sat a-crying, and the beer running all
over the floor.

"Whatever is the matter?" says he.

"Why," says the mother, "look at
that horrid mallet. Just suppose, if our
daughter and her sweetheart was to be
married, and was to have a son, and he
was to grow up, and was to come down
into the cellar to draw the beer, and the
mallet was to fall on his head and kill
him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"

"Dear, dear, dear! so it would!" said
the father, and he sat himself down aside
of the other two, and started a-crying.

Now the gentleman got tired of stopping
up in the kitchen by himself, and at
last he went down into the cellar too, to
see what they were after; and there they
three sat a-crying side by side, and the
beer running all over the floor. And he
ran straight and turned the tap. Then
he said: "Whatever are you three doing,
sitting there crying, and letting the beer
run all over the floor?"

"Oh!" says the father, "look at that
horrid mallet! Suppose you and our
daughter was to be married, and was to
have a son, and he was to grow up, and
was to come down into the cellar to draw
the beer, and the mallet was to fall on
his head and kill him!" And then they
all started a-crying worse than before.

But the gentleman burst out a-laughing,
and reached up and pulled out the
mallet, and then he said: "I've traveled
many miles, and I never met three
such big sillies as you three before; and
now I shall start out on my travels
again, and when I can find three bigger
sillies than you three, then I'll come back
and marry your daughter." So he
wished them good-bye, and started off
on his travels, and left them all crying
because the girl had lost her sweetheart.

Well, he set out, and he traveled a long
way, and at last he came to a woman's
cottage that had some grass growing on
the roof. And the woman was trying
to get her cow to go up a ladder to the[69]
grass, and the poor thing durst not go.
So the gentleman asked the woman what
she was doing. "Why, lookye," she
said, "look at all that beautiful grass.
I'm going to get the cow on to the roof
to eat it. She'll be quite safe, for I shall
tie a string round her neck, and pass it
down the chimney, and tie it to my wrist
as I go about the house, so she can't fall
off without my knowing it."

"Oh, you poor silly!" said the gentleman,
"you should cut the grass and
throw it down to the cow!" But the
woman thought it was easier to get the
cow up the ladder than to get the grass
down, so she pushed her and coaxed
her and got her up, and tied a string round
her neck, and passed it down the chimney,
and fastened it to her own wrist.
And the gentleman went on his way, but
he hadn't gone far when the cow tumbled
off the roof, and hung by the string tied
round her neck, and it strangled her.
And the weight of the cow tied to her
wrist pulled the woman up the chimney,
and she stuck fast half-way and was
smothered in the soot.

Well, that was one big silly.

And the gentleman went on and on,
and he went to an inn to stop the night,
and they were so full at the inn that they
had to put him in a double-bedded room,
and another traveller was to sleep in the
other bed. The other man was a very
pleasant fellow, and they got very friendly
together; but in the morning, when they
were both getting up, the gentleman
was surprised to see the other hang his
trousers on the knobs of the chest of
drawers and run across the room and try
to jump into them, and he tried over and
over again, and couldn't manage it; and
the gentleman wondered whatever he
was doing it for. At last he stopped and
wiped his face with his handkerchief.
"Oh, dear," he says, "I do think trousers
are the most awkwardest kind of clothes
that ever were. I can't think who could
have invented such things. It takes me
the best part of an hour to get into mine
every morning, and I get so hot! How
do you manage yours?" So the gentleman
burst out a-laughing, and showed
him how to put them on; and he was very
much obliged to him, and said he never
should have thought of doing it that way.

So that was another big silly.

Then the gentleman went on his
travels again; and he came to a village,
and outside the village there was a pond,
and round the pond was a crowd of
people. And they had got rakes, and
brooms, and pitchforks, reaching into
the pond; and the gentleman asked what
was the matter.

"Why," they said, "matter enough!
Moon's tumbled into the pond, and we
can't rake her out anyhow!"

So the gentleman burst out a-laughing,
and told them to look up into the sky,
and that it was only the shadow in the
water. But they wouldn't listen to him,
and abused him shamefully, and he got
away as quick as he could.

So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger
than the three sillies at home. So the
gentleman turned back home again and
married the farmer's daughter, and if
they didn't live happy for ever after,
that's nothing to do with you or me.

There seemed to be a feeling common among
the folk that simple-minded persons were
in the special care of Providence. Hence,
sometimes the achievement of success
beyond the power of wiser and cleverer
individuals. "Lazy Jack" comes from the[70]
Halliwell collection. "The humor lies in
the contrast between what Jack did and
what anybody 'with sense' knows he ought
to have done." A parallel story is the
Grimms' "Hans in Luck." A most striking
and popular Americanization of it is Sara
Cone Bryant's "The Story of Epaminondas
and His Auntie" in her Stories to Tell to
Children.

LAZY JACK

Once upon a time there was a boy
whose name was Jack, and he lived
with his mother on a dreary common.
They were very poor, and the old woman
got her living by spinning, but Jack was
so lazy that he would do nothing but bask
in the sun in the hot weather and sit by
the corner of the hearth in the winter
time. His mother could not persuade
him to do anything for her and was
obliged at last to tell him that if he did
not begin to work for his porridge she
would turn him out to get his living as
he could.

This threat at length roused Jack, and
he went out and hired himself for the day
to a neighboring farmer for a penny; but
as he was coming home, never having
had any money in his possession before,
he lost it in passing over a brook. "You
stupid boy," said his mother, "you should
have put it in your pocket."

"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.

The next day Jack went out again and
hired himself to a cowkeeper, who gave
him a jar of milk for his day's work.
Jack took the jar and put it into the large
pocket of his jacket, spilling it all long
before he got home. "Dear me!" said
the old woman; "you should have carried
it on your head."

"I'll do so another time," said Jack.

The following day Jack hired himself
again to a farmer, who agreed to give
him a cream cheese for his services. In
the evening Jack took the cheese and
went home with it on his head. By the
time he got home the cheese was completely
spoilt, part of it being lost and
part matted with his hair. "You stupid
lout," said his mother, "you should
have carried it very carefully in your
hands."

"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.

The day after this Jack again went out
and hired himself to a baker, who would
give him nothing for his work but a large
tomcat. Jack took the cat and began
carrying it very carefully in his hands,
but in a short time pussy scratched him
so much that he was compelled to let it go.
When he got home, his mother said to
him: "You silly fellow, you should have
tied it with a string and dragged it along
after you."

"I'll do so another time," said Jack.

The next day Jack hired himself to a
butcher, who rewarded his labors by the
handsome present of a shoulder of mutton.
Jack took the mutton, tied it to a
string, and trailed it along after him in
the dirt, so that by the time he had got
home the meat was completely spoilt.
His mother was this time quite out of
patience with him, for the next day was
Sunday, and she was obliged to content
herself with cabbage for her dinner.
"You ninney-hammer," said she to her
son, "you should have carried it on your
shoulder."

"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.

On the Monday Jack went once more
and hired himself to a cattle-keeper, who
gave him a donkey for his trouble. Although
Jack was very strong, he found
some difficulty in hoisting the donkey on
his shoulders, but at last he accomplished[71]
it and began walking slowly home with
his prize. Now it happened that in the
course of his journey there lived a rich
man with his only daughter, a beautiful
girl, but unfortunately deaf and dumb.
She had never laughed in her life, and the
doctors said she would never recover till
somebody made her laugh. This young
lady happened to be looking out of the
window when Jack was passing with the
donkey on his shoulders, the legs sticking
up in the air, and the sight was so comical
and strange that she burst out into a
great fit of laughter, and immediately
recovered her speech and hearing. Her
father was overjoyed, and fulfilled his
promise by marrying her to Jack, who was
thus made a rich gentleman. They lived
in a large house, and Jack's mother lived
with them in great happiness until she
died.

The following noodle story is from Halliwell
as obtained from oral tradition in the west
of England. It is a variant of the "Lazy
Jack" type.

THE STORY OF MR. VINEGAR

Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar lived in a vinegar
bottle. Now, one day when Mr.
Vinegar was from home and Mrs. Vinegar,
who was a very good housewife,
was busily sweeping her house, an
unlucky thump of the broom brought
the whole house clitter-clatter about her
ears. In a paroxysm of grief she rushed
forth to meet her husband. On seeing
him she exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Vinegar,
Mr. Vinegar, we are ruined, we are
ruined: I have knocked the house down,
and it is all to pieces!"

Mr. Vinegar then said: "My dear, let
us see what can be done. Here is the
door; I will take it on my back, and we
will go forth to seek our fortune."

They walked all that day and at nightfall
entered a thick forest. They were
both excessively tired, and Mr. Vinegar
said: "My love, I will climb up into a
tree, drag up the door, and you shall
follow." He accordingly did so, and
they both stretched their weary limbs
on the door, and fell fast asleep.

In the middle of the night Mr. Vinegar
was disturbed by the sound of voices
beneath, and to his inexpressible dismay
perceived that a party of thieves were
met to divide their booty. "Here,
Jack," said one, "here's five pounds for
you; here, Bill, here's ten pounds for
you; here, Bob, here's three pounds for
you."

Mr. Vinegar could listen no longer;
his terror was so intense that he trembled
most violently and shook down the door
on their heads. Away scampered the
thieves, but Mr. Vinegar dared not quit
his retreat till broad daylight. He then
scrambled out of the tree and went to
lift up the door. What did he behold
but a number of golden guineas! "Come
down, Mrs. Vinegar," he cried; "come
down, I say; our fortune's made! Come
down, I say."

Mrs. Vinegar got down as fast as she
could and saw the money with equal
delight. "Now, my dear," said she,
"I'll tell you what you shall do. There
is a fair at the neighboring town; you
shall take these forty guineas and buy a
cow. I can make butter and cheese,
which you shall sell at market, and we
shall then be able to live very comfortably."

Mr. Vinegar joyfully assents, takes the
money, and goes off to the fair. When
he arrived, he walked up and down, and[72]
at length saw a beautiful red cow. It
was an excellent milker and perfect in
every respect. "Oh," thought Mr. Vinegar,
"if I had but that cow, I should be
the happiest man alive." So he offers
the forty guineas for the cow, and the
owner declaring that, as he was a friend,
he'd oblige him, the bargain was made.
Proud of his purchase, he drove the cow
backwards and forwards to show it.
By-and-by he saw a man playing the
bagpipes—tweedle-dum, tweedle-dee. The
children followed him about, and he
appeared to be pocketing money on all
sides. "Well," thought Mr. Vinegar,
"if I had but that beautiful instrument,
I should be the happiest man alive—my
fortune would be made." So he went
up to the man. "Friend," says he,
"what a beautiful instrument that is,
and what a deal of money you must
make."

"Why, yes," said the man, "I make a
great deal of money, to be sure, and it
is a wonderful instrument."

"Oh!" cried Mr. Vinegar, "how I
should like to possess it!"

"Well," said the man, "as you are a
friend, I don't much mind parting with
it; you shall have it for that red cow."

"Done!" said the delighted Mr. Vinegar.
So the beautiful red cow was
given for the bagpipes. He walked up
and down with his purchase; but in vain
he attempted to play a tune, and instead
of pocketing pence, the boys followed
him hooting, laughing, and pelting.

Poor Mr. Vinegar, his fingers grew very
cold, and heartily ashamed and mortified,
he was leaving the town, when he
met a man with a fine thick pair of
gloves. "Oh, my fingers are so very
cold," said Mr. Vinegar to himself. "If
I had but those beautiful gloves I should
be the happiest man alive." He went
up to the man, and said to him: "Friend,
you seem to have a capital pair of gloves
there."

"Yes, truly," cried the man; "and my
hands are as warm as possible this cold
November day."

"Well," said Mr. Vinegar, "I should
like to have them."

"What will you give?" said the man;
"as you are a friend, I don't much mind
letting you have them for those bagpipes."

"Done!" cried Mr. Vinegar. He put
on the gloves, and felt perfectly happy as
he trudged homewards.

At last he grew very tired, when he
saw a man coming towards him with a
good stout stick in his hand. "Oh,"
said Mr. Vinegar, "that I but had that
stick! I should then be the happiest
man alive." He accosted the man:
"Friend! what a rare good stick you have
got."

"Yes," said the man; "I have used it
for many a long mile, and a good friend
it has been; but if you have a fancy for
it, as you are a friend, I don't mind giving
it to you for that pair of gloves." Mr.
Vinegar's hands were so warm, and his
legs so tired, that he gladly exchanged.

As he drew near to the wood where he
had left his wife, he heard a parrot on a
tree calling out his name: "Mr. Vinegar,
you foolish man, you blockhead, you
simpleton; you went to the fair and laid
out all your money in buying a cow.
Not content with that, you changed it
for bagpipes, on which you could not
play and which were not worth one-tenth
of the money. You fool, you—you had
no sooner got the bagpipes than you
changed them for the gloves, which were
not worth one-quarter of the money;[73]
and when you had got the gloves, you
changed them for a poor miserable stick;
and now for your forty guineas, cow, bagpipes,
and gloves, you have nothing to
show but that poor miserable stick,
which you might have cut in any hedge."
On this the bird laughed immoderately,
and Mr. Vinegar, falling into a violent
rage, threw the stick at its head. The
stick lodged in the tree, and he returned
to his wife without money, cow, bagpipes,
gloves, or stick, and she instantly
gave him such a sound cudgelling that
she almost broke every bone in his skin.

One of the greatest favorites among nursery
tales is the story of that Jack who showed
"an inquiring mind, a great courage and
enterprise," and who climbed the ladder of
fortune when he mounted his bean-stalk.
The traditional versions of this story are
nearly all crude and unsatisfactory, as are
those of many of the English tales. Joseph
Jacobs made a remarkably fine literary
version in his English Fairy Tales from
memories of his Australian childhood. He
materially shortens the story by omitting
the fairy lady, who, he suggests, was put
in "to prevent the tale becoming an encouragement
to theft." He also made Jack's
character more consistent by making him
more sympathetic and kind at the beginning
and less of a "ne'er-do-well," though
the noodle element in the selling of the cow
could not be eliminated. Andrew Lang,
in his Green Fairy Book, gives an excellent
version of the story in its most extended
form. Both the versions mentioned introduce,
when the giant comes in, the formula
generally associated with "Jack the Giant
Killer":

"Fee-fi-fo-fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread."

The version chosen for use here contains
the elements of the story most familiar to
past generations and is probably as near
the commoner oral traditions as it is possible
to secure. It is taken from Miss Mulock's
The Fairy Book, a very fine selection of
tales, first published in 1863, and still
widely used. Miss Muloch (Dinah Maria
Craik, 1826-1887) is best known as the
author of the popular novel John Halifax,
Gentleman.

JACK AND THE BEAN-STALK

In the days of King Alfred there lived
a poor woman, whose cottage was in a
remote country village, many miles from
London. She had been a widow some
years, and had an only child named Jack,
whom she indulged so much that he
never paid the least attention to anything
she said, but was indolent, careless,
and extravagant. His follies were not
owing to a bad disposition, but to his
mother's foolish partiality. By degrees
he spent all that she had—scarcely anything
remained but a cow.

One day, for the first time in her life,
she reproached him: "Cruel, cruel boy!
you have at last brought me to beggary.
I have not money enough to purchase
even a bit of bread; nothing now remains
to sell but my poor cow! I am sorry
to part with her; it grieves me sadly, but
we cannot starve."

For a few minutes Jack felt remorse,
but it was soon over, and he began asking
his mother to let him sell the cow at
the next village, teasing her so much
that she at last consented. As he was
going along he met a butcher, who
inquired why he was driving the cow
from home. Jack replied that he was
going to sell her. The butcher held some
curious beans in his hat; they were of
various colors, and attracted Jack's[74]
attention. This did not pass unnoticed
by the man, who, knowing Jack's easy
temper, thought now was the time to
take an advantage of it; and, determined
not to let slip so good an opportunity,
asked what was the price of the
cow, offering at the same time all the
beans in his hat for her. The silly boy
could not conceal the pleasure he felt
at what he supposed so great an offer.
The bargain was struck instantly, and
the cow exchanged for a few paltry
beans. Jack made the best of his way
home, calling aloud to his mother before
he reached the door, thinking to surprise
her.

When she saw the beans, and heard
Jack's account, her patience quite forsook
her. She tossed the beans out of the
window, where they fell on the garden-bed
below. Then she threw her apron
over her head, and cried bitterly. Jack
attempted to console her, but in vain,
and, not having anything to eat, they
both went supperless to bed.

Jack awoke early in the morning, and
seeing something uncommon darkening
the window of his bed-chamber, ran
down stairs into the garden, where he
found some of the beans had taken
root and sprung up surprisingly. The
stalks were of an immense thickness, and
had twined together until they formed a
ladder like a chain, and so high that the
top appeared to be lost in the clouds.

Jack was an adventurous lad; he
determined to climb up to the top, and
ran to tell his mother, not doubting but
that she would be equally pleased with
himself. She declared he should not
go; said it would break her heart if
he did; entreated and threatened, but
all in vain. Jack set out, and after
climbing for some hours reached the top
of the bean-stalk, quite exhausted. Looking
around, he found himself in a strange
country. It appeared to be a barren
desert; not a tree, shrub, house, or living
creature was to be seen; here and there
were scattered fragments of stone, and
at unequal distances small heaps of earth
were loosely thrown together.

Jack seated himself pensively upon a
block of stone and thought of his mother.
He reflected with sorrow upon his disobedience
in climbing the bean-stalk
against her will, and concluded that he
must die of hunger. However, he walked
on, hoping to see a house where he might
beg something to eat and drink. He
did not find it; but he saw at a distance
a beautiful lady walking all alone. She
was elegantly clad, and carried a white
wand, at the top of which sat a peacock
of pure gold.

Jack, who was a gallant fellow, went
straight up to her, when, with a bewitching
smile, she asked him how he came
there. He told her all about the bean-stalk.
The lady answered him by a
question, "Do you remember your father,
young man?"

"No, madam; but I am sure there is
some mystery about him, for when I
name him to my mother she always
begins to weep and will tell me nothing."

"She dare not," replied the lady, "but
I can and will. For know, young man,
that I am a fairy, and was your father's
guardian. But fairies are bound by
laws as well as mortals; and by an error
of mine I lost my power for a term of
years, so that I was unable to succor
your father when he most needed it,
and he died." Here the fairy looked so
sorrowful that Jack's heart warmed to
her, and he begged her earnestly to tell
him more.[75]

"I will; only you must promise to
obey me in everything, or you will
perish yourself."

Jack was brave, and, besides, his
fortunes were so bad they could not
well be worse,—so he promised.

The fairy continued: "Your father,
Jack, was a most excellent, amiable,
generous man. He had a good wife,
faithful servants, plenty of money; but
he had one misfortune—a false friend.
This was a giant, whom he had succored
in misfortune, and who returned his
kindness by murdering him and seizing
on all his property; also making your
mother take a solemn oath that she
would never tell you anything about
your father, or he would murder both
her and you. Then he turned her off
with you in her arms, to wander about
the wide world as she might. I could
not help her, as my power only returned
on the day you went to sell your cow.

"It was I," added the fairy, "who
impelled you to take the beans, who
made the bean-stalk grow, and inspired
you with the desire to climb up it to
this strange country; for it is here the
wicked giant lives who was your father's
destroyer. It is you who must avenge
him, and rid the world of a monster who
never will do anything but evil. I will
assist you. You may lawfully take
possession of his house and all his riches,
for everything he has belonged to your
father, and is therefore yours. Now,
farewell! Do not let your mother know
you are acquainted with your father's
history; this is my command, and if
you disobey me you will suffer for it.
Now go."

Jack asked where he was to go.

"Along the direct road, till you see
the house where the giant lives. You
must then act according to your own
just judgment, and I will guide you if
any difficulty arises. Farewell!"

She bestowed on the youth a benignant
smile, and vanished.

Jack pursued his journey. He walked
on till after sunset, when, to his great
joy, he espied a large mansion. A plain-looking
woman was at the door. He
accosted her, begging she would give
him a morsel of bread and a night's
lodging. She expressed the greatest surprise,
and said it was quite uncommon
to see a human being near their house;
for it was well known that her husband
was a powerful giant, who would never
eat anything but human flesh, if he could
possibly get it; that he would walk
fifty miles to procure it, usually being
out the whole day for that purpose.

This account greatly terrified Jack,
but still he hoped to elude the giant,
and therefore he again entreated the
woman to take him in for one night
only, and hide him where she thought
proper. She at last suffered herself to
be persuaded, for she was of a compassionate
and generous disposition, and
took him into the house. First, they
entered a fine large hall, magnificently
furnished; they then passed through
several spacious rooms, in the same style
of grandeur; but all appeared forsaken
and desolate. A long gallery came next,
it was very dark, just light enough to
show that instead of a wall on one side,
there was a grating of iron which parted
off a dismal dungeon, from whence
issued the groans of those victims whom
the cruel giant reserved in confinement
for his own voracious appetite.

Poor Jack was half dead with fear, and
would have given the world to have been
with his mother again, for he now began[76]
to doubt if he should ever see her more;
he even mistrusted the good woman, and
thought she had let him into the house
for no other purpose than to lock him
up among the unfortunate people in the
dungeon. However, she bade Jack sit
down, and gave him plenty to eat and
drink; and he, not seeing anything to
make him uncomfortable, soon forgot
his fear, and was just beginning to enjoy
himself, when he was startled by a loud
knocking at the outer door, which made
the whole house shake.

"Ah! that's the giant; and if he sees
you he will kill you and me too," cried
the poor woman, trembling all over.
"What shall I do?"

"Hide me in the oven," cried Jack,
now as bold as a lion at the thought of
being face to face with his father's cruel
murderer. So he crept into the oven—for
there was no fire near it—and listened
to the giant's loud voice and heavy step
as he went up and down the kitchen
scolding his wife. At last he seated
himself at the table, and Jack, peeping
through a crevice in the oven, was
amazed to see what a quantity of food
he devoured. It seemed as if he never
would have done eating and drinking;
but he did at last, and, leaning back,
called to his wife in a voice like thunder:

"Bring me my hen!"

She obeyed, and placed upon the
table a very beautiful live hen.

"Lay!" roared the giant, and the hen
laid immediately an egg of solid gold.

"Lay another!" and every time the
giant said this the hen laid a larger egg
than before.

He amused himself a long time with
his hen, and then sent his wife to bed,
while he fell asleep by the fireside, and
snored like the roaring of cannon.

As soon as he was asleep Jack crept
out of the oven, seized the hen, and ran
off with her. He got safely out of the
house, and finding his way along the
road he had come, reached the top of
the bean-stalk, which he descended in
safety.

His mother was overjoyed to see
him. She thought he had come to some
ill end.

"Not a bit of it, mother. Look here!"
and he showed her the hen. "Now lay!"
and the hen obeyed him as readily as
the giant, and laid as many golden eggs
as he desired.

These eggs being sold, Jack and his
mother got plenty of money, and for
some months lived very happily together;
till Jack got another great longing to
climb the bean-stalk and carry away
some more of the giant's riches. He
had told his mother of his adventure,
but had been very careful not to say
a word about his father. He thought
of his journey again and again, but still
he could not summon resolution enough
to break it to his mother, being well
assured that she would endeavor to
prevent his going. However, one day
he told her boldly that he must take
another journey up the bean-stalk. She
begged and prayed him not to think of
it, and tried all in her power to dissuade
him. She told him that the giant's wife
would certainly know him again, and
that the giant would desire nothing
better than to get him into his power,
that he might put him to a cruel death
in order to be revenged for the loss of
his hen. Jack, finding that all his arguments
were useless, ceased speaking,
though resolved to go at all events. He
had a dress prepared which would disguise
him, and something to color his[77]
skin. He thought it impossible for any
one to recollect him in this dress.

A few mornings after, he rose very
early, and, unperceived by any one,
climbed the bean-stalk a second time.
He was greatly fatigued when he reached
the top, and very hungry. Having
rested some time on one of the stones,
he pursued his journey to the giant's
mansion, which he reached late in the
evening. The woman was at the door
as before. Jack addressed her, at the
same time telling her a pitiful tale, and
requesting that she would give him
some victuals and drink, and also a
night's lodging.

She told him (what he knew before
very well) about her husband's being a
powerful and cruel giant, and also that
she had one night admitted a poor,
hungry, friendless boy; that the little
ungrateful fellow had stolen one of the
giant's treasures; and ever since that
her husband had been worse than before,
using her very cruelly, and continually
upbraiding her with being the cause of
his misfortune.

Jack felt sorry for her, but confessed
nothing, and did his best to persuade
her to admit him, but found it a very
hard task. At last she consented, and
as she led the way, Jack observed that
everything was just as he had found it
before. She took him into the kitchen,
and after he had done eating and drinking,
she hid him in an old lumber-closet.

The giant returned at the usual time,
and walked in so heavily that the house
was shaken to its foundation. He seated
himself by the fire, and soon after
exclaimed, "Wife, I smell fresh meat!"

The wife replied it was the crows,
which had brought a piece of raw meat
and left it at the top of the house. While
supper was preparing, the giant was very
ill-tempered and impatient, frequently
lifting up his hand to strike his wife
for not being quick enough. He was
also continually upbraiding her with the
loss of his wonderful hen.

At last, having ended his supper, he
cried, "Give me something to amuse
me—my harp or my money-bags."

"Which will you have, my dear?"
said the wife humbly.

"My money-bags, because they are
the heaviest to carry," thundered he.

She brought them, staggering under
the weight; two bags—one filled with
new guineas, and the other with new
shillings. She emptied them out on the
table, and the giant began counting
them in great glee. "Now you may
go to bed, you old fool." So the wife
crept away.

Jack from his hiding-place watched
the counting of the money, which he
knew was his poor father's, and wished
it was his own; it would give him much
less trouble than going about selling the
golden eggs. The giant, little thinking
he was so narrowly observed, reckoned
it all up, and then replaced it in the two
bags, which he tied up very carefully
and put beside his chair, with his little
dog to guard them. At last he fell
asleep as before, and snored so loud
that Jack compared his noise to the
roaring of the sea in a high wind when
the tide is coming in.

At last Jack, concluding all secure,
stole out, in order to carry off the two
bags of money; but just as he laid his
hands upon one of them, the little dog,
which he had not seen before, started
from under the giant's chair and barked
most furiously. Instead of endeavoring
to escape, Jack stood still, though[78]
expecting his enemy to awake every
instant. Contrary, however, to his
expectation, the giant continued in a
sound sleep, and Jack, seeing a piece of
meat, threw it to the dog, who at once
ceased barking and began to devour it.
So Jack carried off the bags, one on each
shoulder, but they were so heavy that
it took him two whole days to descend
the bean-stalk and get back to his
mother's door.

When he came he found the cottage
deserted. He ran from one room to
another, without being able to find any
one. He then hastened into the village,
hoping to see some of the neighbors who
could inform him where he could find
his mother. An old woman at last
directed him to a neighboring house,
where she was ill of a fever. He was
greatly shocked at finding her apparently
dying, and blamed himself bitterly as the
cause of it all. However, at sight of her
dear son, the poor woman revived, and
slowly recovered health. Jack gave her
his two money-bags. They had the cottage
rebuilt and well furnished, and lived
happier than they had ever done before.

For three years Jack heard no more of
the bean-stalk, but he could not forget
it, though he feared making his mother
unhappy. It was in vain endeavoring
to amuse himself; he became thoughtful,
and would arise at the first dawn of day,
and sit looking at the bean-stalk for
hours together.

His mother saw that something preyed
upon his mind, and endeavored to discover
the cause; but Jack knew too well
what the consequence would be should
she succeed. He did his utmost, therefore,
to conquer the great desire he had
for another journey up the bean-stalk.
Finding, however, that his inclination
grew too powerful for him, he began to
make secret preparations for his journey.
He got ready a new disguise, better and
more complete than the former; and when
summer came, on the longest day he
woke as soon as it was light, and, without
telling his mother, ascended the bean-stalk.
He found, the road, journey, etc.,
much as it was on the two former times.
He arrived at the giant's mansion in
the evening, and found the wife standing,
as usual, at the door. Jack had disguised
himself so completely that she did not
appear to have the least recollection of
him; however, when he pleaded hunger
and poverty in order to gain admittance,
he found it very difficult indeed to persuade
her. At last he prevailed, and was
concealed in the copper.

When the giant returned, he said
furiously, "I smell fresh meat!" But
Jack felt quite composed, as he had
said so before and had been soon satisfied.
However, the giant started up suddenly,
and, notwithstanding all his wife could
say, he searched all round the room.
Whilst this was going forward, Jack was
exceedingly terrified, wishing himself at
home a thousand times; but when the
giant approached the copper, and put
his hand on the lid, Jack thought his
death was certain. However, nothing
happened; for the giant did not take
the trouble to lift up the lid, but sat
down shortly by the fireside and began
to eat his enormous supper. When he
had finished, he commanded his wife to
fetch down his harp.

Jack peeped under the copper lid and
saw a most beautiful harp. The giant
placed it on the table, said, "Play!"
and it played of its own accord, without
anybody touching it, the most exquisite
music imaginable.[79]

Jack, who was a very good musician,
was delighted, and more anxious to get
this than any other of his enemy's treasures.
But the giant not being particularly
fond of music, the harp had only
the effect of lulling him to sleep earlier
than usual. As for the wife, she had
gone to bed as soon as ever she could.

As soon as he thought all was safe,
Jack got out of the copper, and, seizing
the harp, was eagerly running off with
it. But the harp was enchanted by a
fairy, and as soon as it found itself in
strange hands, it called out loudly, just
as if it had been alive, "Master! Master!"

The giant awoke, started up, and saw
Jack scampering away as fast as his
legs could carry him.

"Oh, you villain! It is you who have
robbed me of my hen and my money-bags,
and now you are stealing my
harp also. Wait till I catch you, and
I'll eat you up alive!"

"Very well; try!" shouted Jack, who
was not a bit afraid, for he saw the
giant was so tipsy he could hardly stand,
much less run; and he himself had
young legs and a clear conscience, which
carry a man a long way. So, after leading
the giant a considerable race, he
contrived to be first at the top of the
bean-stalk, and then scrambled down
it as fast as he could, the harp playing
all the while the most melancholy music,
till he said, "Stop"; and it stopped.

Arrived at the bottom, he found his
mother sitting at her cottage door,
weeping silently.

"Here, mother, don't cry; just give
me a hatchet; make haste." For he
knew there was not a moment to spare.
He saw the giant beginning to descend
the bean-stalk.

However, it was too late—the monster's
ill deeds had come to an end.
Jack with his hatchet cut the bean-stalk
close off at the root; the giant
fell headlong into the garden, and was
killed on the spot.

Instantly the fairy appeared and
explained everything to Jack's mother,
begging her to forgive Jack, who was
his father's own son for bravery and
generosity, and who would be sure to
make her happy for the rest of her days.

So all ended well, and nothing was
ever more heard or seen of the wonderful
bean-stalk.

Those wonder stories that concern themselves
with giants or with very little people have
always been favorites with children. Of
the little heroes Tom Thumb has always
held the center of the stage. His adventures
in one form or another are in the folk
tales of most European countries. He has
the honor of being the subject of a monograph
by the great French scholar Gaston
Paris. Hans Christian Andersen turned him
into a delightful little girl in his derivative
story of "Thumbelina." The English version
of "Tom Thumb" seems to have been
printed first in ballad form in the seventeenth
century, and later in many chapbook
versions in prose. Its plot takes the form
of a succession of marvelous accidents by
land and sea, limited only by the inventive
ingenuity of the story-teller. "According
to popular tradition Tom Thumb died at
Lincoln. . . . There was a little blue
flagstone in the pavement of the Minster
which was shown as Tom Thumb's monument,
and the country folks never failed
to marvel at it when they came to church
on the Assize Sunday; but during some of
the modern repairs which have been
inflicted on that venerable building, the flagstone
was displaced and lost, to the great[80]
discomfiture of the holiday visitants."
Thus wrote an ancient and learned scholar
in illustration of the tendency to give a
local habitation and a name to our favorite
fancies. The version of the story given by
Miss Mulock in her Fairy Book is the one
used here. It follows closely the rambling
events of the various chapbook and ballad
versions.

TOM THUMB

In the days of King Arthur, Merlin, the
most learned enchanter of his time, was
on a journey; and being very weary,
stopped one day at the cottage of an
honest ploughman to ask for refreshment.
The ploughman's wife with great
civility immediately brought him some
milk in a wooden bowl and some brown
bread on a wooden platter.

Merlin could not help observing that
although everything within the cottage
was particularly neat and clean and in
good order, the ploughman and his wife
had the most sorrowful air imaginable;
so he questioned them on the cause of
their melancholy and learned that they
were very miserable because they had
no children.

The poor woman declared with tears
in her eyes that she should be the happiest
creature in the world if she had a
son, although he were no bigger than
his father's thumb.

Merlin was much amused with the
notion of a boy no bigger than a man's
thumb, and as soon as he returned home
he sent for the queen of the fairies (with
whom he was very intimate) and related
to her the desire of the ploughman and
his wife to have a son the size of his
father's thumb. She liked the plan
exceedingly and declared their wish
should be speedily granted. Accordingly
the ploughman's wife had a son,
who in a few minutes grew as tall as his
father's thumb.

The queen of the fairies came in at
the window as the mother was sitting
up in bed admiring the child. Her
majesty kissed the infant and, giving
it the name of Tom Thumb, immediately
summoned several fairies from
Fairyland to clothe her new little favorite.

"An oak-leaf hat he had for his crown;
His shirt it was by spiders spun;
With doublet wove of thistledown,
His trousers up with points were done;
His stockings, of apple-rind, they tie
With eye-lash plucked from his mother's eye,
His shoes were made of a mouse's skin,
Nicely tann'd with hair within."

Tom was never any bigger than his
father's thumb, which was not a large
thumb either; but as he grew older he
became very cunning, for which his
mother did not sufficiently correct him,
and by this ill quality he was often
brought into difficulties. For instance,
when he had learned to play with other
boys for cherry-stones and had lost all
his own, he used to creep into the boys'
bags, fill his pockets, and come out again
to play. But one day as he was getting
out of a bag of cherry-stones, the boy to
whom it belonged chanced to see him.

"Ah, ha, my little Tom Thumb!" said
he, "have I caught you at your bad tricks
at last? Now I will reward you for
thieving." Then he drew the string
tight around Tom's neck and shook the
bag. The cherry-stones bruised Tom
Thumb's legs, thighs, and body sadly,
which made him beg to be let out and
promise never to be guilty of such things
any more.

Shortly afterwards Tom's mother was
making a batter-pudding, and that he[81]
might see how she mixed it, he climbed on
the edge of the bowl; but his foot happening
to slip, he fell over head and ears into
the batter. His mother not observing
him, stirred him into the pudding and
popped him into the pot to boil. The
hot water made Tom kick and struggle;
and the mother, seeing the pudding jump
up and down in such a furious manner,
thought it was bewitched; and a tinker
coming by just at the time, she quickly
gave him the pudding. He put it into
his budget and walked on.

As soon as Tom could get the batter
out of his mouth he began to cry aloud,
and so frightened the poor tinker that he
flung the pudding over the hedge and ran
away from it as fast as he could. The
pudding being broken to pieces by the
fall, Tom was released, and walked home
to his mother, who gave him a kiss and
put him to bed.

Tom Thumb's mother once took him
with her when she went to milk the cow;
and it being a very windy day, she tied
him with a needleful of thread to a thistle,
that he might not be blown away. The
cow, liking his oak-leaf hat, took him
and the thistle up at one mouthful.
While the cow chewed the thistle, Tom,
terrified at her great teeth, which seemed
ready to crush him to pieces, roared,
"Mother, mother!" as loud as he could
bawl.

"Where are you, Tommy, my dear
Tommy?" said the mother.

"Here, mother, here in the red cow's
mouth."

The mother began to cry and wring
her hands; but the cow, surprised at
such odd noises in her throat, opened
her mouth and let him drop out. His
mother clapped him into her apron and
ran home with him.

Tom's father made him a whip of a
barley straw to drive the cattle with, and
one day when he was in the field he
slipped into a deep furrow. A raven
flying over picked him up with a grain
of corn and flew with him to the top
of a giant's castle by the seaside, where
he left him; and old Grumbo, the giant,
coming soon after to walk upon his
terrace, swallowed Tom like a pill,
clothes and all.

Tom presently made the giant very
uncomfortable, and he threw him up
into the sea. A great fish then swallowed
him. The fish was soon after
caught, and sent as a present to King
Arthur. When it was cut open, everybody
was delighted with little Tom
Thumb. The king made him his dwarf;
he was the favorite of the whole court,
and by his merry pranks often amused
the queen and the knights of the Round
Table.

The king, when he rode on horse-back,
frequently took Tom in his hand; and
if a shower of rain came on, he used to
creep into the king's waist-coat pocket
and sleep till the rain was over. The
king also sometimes questioned Tom concerning
his parents; and when Tom
informed his majesty they were very
poor people, the king led him into his
treasury and told him he should pay his
friends a visit and take with him as
much money as he could carry. Tom
procured a little purse, and putting a
threepenny piece into it, with much
labor and difficulty got it upon his back;
and, after travelling two days and nights,
arrived at his father's house.

When his mother met him at the door,
he was almost tired to death, having in
forty-eight hours traveled almost half
a mile with a huge silver threepence[82]
upon his back. Both his parents were
glad to see him, especially when he had
brought such an amazing sum of money
with him. They placed him in a walnut-shell
by the fireside and feasted him for
three days upon a hazel-nut, which made
him sick, for a whole nut usually served
him for a month.

Tom got well, but could not travel
because it had rained; therefore his
mother took him in her hand, and with
one puff blew him into King Arthur's
court, where Tom entertained the king,
queen, and nobility at tilts and tournaments,
at which he exerted himself so
much that he brought on a fit of sickness,
and his life was despaired of.

At this juncture the queen of the fairies
came in a chariot, drawn by flying mice,
placed Tom by her side, and drove
through the air without stopping till
they arrived at her palace. After restoring
him to health and permitting him
to enjoy all the gay diversions of Fairyland,
she commanded a fair wind, and,
placing Tom before it, blew him straight
to the court of King Arthur. But just
as Tom should have alighted in the
courtyard of the palace, the cook happened
to pass along with the king's
great bowl of furmenty (King Arthur
loved furmenty), and poor Tom Thumb
fell plump into the middle of it and
splashed the hot furmenty into the cook's
eyes. Down went the bowl.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Tom.

"Murder! murder!" bellowed the cook;
and away poured the king's nice furmenty
into the kennel.

The cook was a red-faced, cross fellow,
and swore to the king that Tom had
done it out of mere mischief; so he was
taken up, tried, and sentenced to be
beheaded. Tom hearing this dreadful
sentence and seeing a miller stand by
with his mouth wide open, he took a
good spring and jumped down the miller's
throat, unperceived by all, even the
miller himself.

Tom being lost, the court broke up,
and away went the miller to his mill.
But Tom did not leave him long at rest;
he began to roll and tumble about, so
that the miller thought himself bewitched
and sent for a doctor. When the doctor
came, Tom began to dance and sing.
The doctor was as much frightened as
the miller and sent in great haste for
five more doctors and twenty learned
men.

While all these were debating upon
the affair, the miller (for they were very
tedious) happened to yawn, and Tom,
taking the opportunity, made another
jump and alighted on his feet in the
middle of the table. The miller, provoked
to be thus tormented by such a
little creature, fell into a great passion,
caught hold of Tom, and threw him out
of the window into the river. A large
salmon swimming by snapped him up in
a minute. The salmon was soon caught
and sold in the market to a steward of
a lord. The lord, thinking it an uncommonly
fine fish, made a present of it to
the king, who ordered it to be dressed
immediately. When the cook cut open
the salmon he found poor Tom and ran
with him directly to the king; but the
king, being busy with state affairs, desired
that he might be brought another day.

The cook, resolving to keep him safely
this time, as he had so lately given him
the slip, clapped him into a mouse-trap
and left him to amuse himself by peeping
through the wires for a whole week.
When the king sent for him, he forgave
him for throwing down the furmenty,[83]
ordered him new clothes, and knighted
him.

"His shirt was made of butterflies' wings;
His boots were made of chicken skins,
His coat and breeches were made with pride,
A tailor's needle hung by his side;
A mouse for a horse he used to ride."

Thus dressed and mounted, he rode
a-hunting with the king and nobility,
who all laughed heartily at Tom and his
prancing steed. As they rode by a farm-house
one day, a cat jumped from behind
the door, seized the mouse and little Tom,
and began to devour the mouse; however,
Tom boldly drew his sword and
attacked the cat, who then let him fall.
The king and his nobles, seeing Tom
falling, went to his assistance, and one
of the lords caught him in his hat; but
poor Tom was sadly scratched, and his
clothes were torn by the claws of the
cat. In this condition he was carried
home, and a bed of down was made for
him in a little ivory cabinet.

The queen of the fairies came and
took him again to Fairyland, where she
kept him for some years; and then,
dressing him in bright green, sent him
flying once more through the air to the
earth, in the days of King Thunstone.
The people flocked far and near to look
at him; and the king, before whom he
was carried, asked him who he was,
whence he came, and where he lived?
Tom answered:

"My name is Tom Thumb;
From the fairies I come;
When King Arthur shone,
This court was my home;
In me he delighted;
By him I was knighted.Did you ever hear ofSir Thomas Thumb?"

The king was so charmed with this
address that he ordered a little chair to
be made, in order that Tom might sit
on his table, and also a palace of gold a
span high with a door an inch wide, for
little Tom to live in. He also gave him
a coach drawn by six small mice. This
made the queen angry, because she had
not a new coach too; therefore, resolving
to ruin Tom, she complained to the king
that he had behaved very insolently to
her. The king sent for him in a rage.
Tom, to escape his fury, crept into an
empty snail-shell and there lay till he
was almost starved; then, peeping out
of the hole, he saw a fine butterfly settle
on the ground. He then ventured out,
and getting astride, the butterfly took
wing and mounted into the air with little
Tom on his back. Away he flew from
field to field, from tree to tree, till at
last he flew to the king's court. The
king, queen, and nobles all strove to
catch the butterfly, but could not. At
length poor Tom, having neither bridle
nor saddle, slipped from his seat and
fell into a watering-pot, where he was
found almost drowned.

The queen vowed he should be guillotined;
but while the guillotine was getting
ready, he was secured once more in a
mousetrap. The cat, seeing something
stir and supposing it to be a mouse,
patted the trap about till she broke it
and set Tom at liberty.

Soon afterwards a spider, taking him
for a fly, made at him. Tom drew his
sword and fought valiantly, but the
spider's poisonous breath overcame him:

"He fell dead on the ground where late he had stood,
And the spider suck'd up the last drop of his blood."

King Thunstone and his whole court
went into mourning for little Tom[84]
Thumb. They buried him under a
rosebush and raised a nice white marble
monument over his grave, with the
following epitaph:

"Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur's knight,
Who died by a spider's cruel bite.
He was well known in Arthur's court,
Where he afforded gallant sport;
He rode at tilt and tournament,
And on a mouse a-hunting went.
Alive he fill'd the court with mirth,
His death to sorrow soon gave birth.
Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head,
And cry, 'Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.'"

This chapbook form of the famous "Whittington
and His Cat" is the one reprinted by
Hartland in his English Fairy and Folk
Tales. It goes back to the early eighteenth
century. Sir Richard Whittington, at
least, was a historical character and served
his first term as Lord Mayor of London in
1397. Like most popular stories, this one
of a fortune due to a cat is common to all
Europe. Mr. Clouston, in the second
volume of his Popular Tales and Fictions,
outlines a number of these stories, and even
points out a Persian parallel of an earlier
date than the birth of Sir Richard. Just
how this very prosperous business man of
London, who was never in reality a poor
boy, came to be adopted as the hero of the
English version of this romantic tale has
never been made clear. Probably it was
due to the common tendency of the folk in
all lands to attribute unusual success in any
field to other than ordinary causes. However
that may be, it is certainly true that
no story more completely satisfies the ideal
of complete success for children than this
"History of Sir Richard Whittington."
Mr. Jacobs calls attention to the interesting
fact that the chapbook places the introduction
of the potato into England rather far
back!

WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT

In the reign of the famous King
Edward III, there was a little boy called
Dick Whittington, whose father and
mother died when he was very young, so
that he remembered nothing at all about
them and was left a ragged little fellow,
running about a country village. As
poor Dick was not old enough to work,
he was very badly off; he got but little
for his dinner and sometimes nothing at
all for his breakfast, for the people who
lived in the village were very poor indeed
and could not spare him much more than
the parings of potatoes and now and then
a hard crust of bread.

For all this, Dick Whittington was a
very sharp boy and was always listening
to what everybody talked about. On
Sunday he was sure to get near the
farmers as they sat talking on the tombstones
in the churchyard before the parson
was come; and once a week you
might see little Dick leaning against the
sign post of the village alehouse, where
people stopped to drink as they came
from the next market town; and when
the barber's shop door was open, Dick
listened to all the news that his customers
told one another.

In this manner Dick heard a great
many very strange things about the city
called London; for the foolish country
people at that time thought that folks
in London were all fine gentlemen and
ladies, and that there was singing and
music there all day long, and that the
streets were all paved with gold.

One day a large wagon and eight horses,
all with bells at their heads, drove
through the village while Dick was standing
by the signpost. He thought that
this wagon must be going to the fine[85]
town of London; so he took courage and
asked the wagoner to let him walk with
him by the side of the wagon. As soon
as the wagoner heard that poor Dick
had no father or mother and saw by his
ragged clothes that he could not be worse
off than he was, he told him he might go
if he would, so they set off together.

I could never find out how little Dick
contrived to get meat and drink on the
road, nor how he could walk so far, for
it was a long way, nor what he did at
night for a place to lie down to sleep in.
Perhaps some good-natured people in the
towns that he passed through, when they
saw he was a poor little ragged boy, gave
him something to eat; and perhaps the
wagoner let him get into the wagon at
night and take a nap upon one of the
boxes or large parcels in the wagon.

Dick, however, got safe to London and
was in such a hurry to see the fine streets
paved all over with gold that I am afraid
he did not even stay to thank the kind
wagoner, but ran off as fast as his legs
would carry him through many of the
streets, thinking every moment to come
to those that were paved with gold, for
Dick had seen a guinea three times in his
own little village and remembered what
a deal of money it brought in change; so
he thought he had nothing to do but to
take up some little bits of the pavement
and should then have as much money as
he could wish for.

Poor Dick ran till he was tired and had
quite forgotten his friend the wagoner;
but at last, finding it grow dark and that
every way he turned he saw nothing but
dirt instead of gold, he sat down in a dark
corner and cried himself to sleep.

Little Dick was all night in the streets;
and next morning, being very hungry, he
got up and walked about and asked everybody
he met to give him a halfpenny to
keep him from starving. But nobody
stayed to answer him, and only two or
three gave him a halfpenny; so that the
poor boy was soon quite weak and faint
for the want of victuals.

At last a good-natured looking gentleman
saw how hungry he looked. "Why
don't you go to work, my lad?" said he
to Dick.

"That I would, but I do not know how
to get any," answered Dick.

"If you are willing, come along with
me," said the gentleman, and took him
to a hay-field, where Dick worked briskly
and lived merrily till the hay was made.

After this he found himself as badly off
as before; and being almost starved again,
he laid himself down at the door of Mr.
Fitzwarren, a rich merchant. Here he
was soon seen by the cook-maid, who was
an ill-tempered creature and happened
just then to be very busy dressing dinner
for her master and mistress; so she called
out to poor Dick: "What business
have you there, you lazy rogue? There is
nothing else but beggars. If you do not
take yourself away, we will see how you
will like a sousing of some dish water; I
have some here hot enough to make you
jump."

Just at that time Mr. Fitzwarren himself
came home to dinner; and when he
saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door,
he said to him: "Why do you lie there,
my boy? You seem old enough to work.
I am afraid you are inclined to be lazy."

"No, indeed, sir," said Dick to him,
"that is not the case, for I would work
with all my heart, but I do not know
anybody, and I believe I am very sick
for the want of food."

Dick then tried to rise, but was obliged
to lie down again, being too weak to
stand, for he had not eaten any food for
three days and was no longer able to
run about and beg a halfpenny of people
in the street. So the kind merchant
ordered him to be taken into the house,
and have a good dinner given him, and
be kept to do what dirty work he was
able for the cook.

Little Dick would have lived very
happy in this good family if it had not
been for the ill-natured cook, who was
finding fault and scolding him from
morning to night, and besides she was so
fond of basting that when she had no
meat to baste she would baste poor
Dick's head and shoulders with a broom
or anything else that happened to fall in
her way. At last her ill-usage of him
was told to Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's
daughter, who told the cook she should
be turned away if she did not treat him
kinder.

The ill-humor of the cook was now a
little amended; but besides this Dick had
another hardship to get over. His bed
stood in a garret where there were so
many holes in the floor and the walls
that every night he was tormented with
rats and mice. A gentleman having
given Dick a penny for cleaning his shoes,
he thought he would buy a cat with it.
The next day he saw a girl with a cat
and asked her if she would let him have
it for a penny. The girl said she would
and at the same time told him the cat
was an excellent mouser.

Dick hid his cat in the garret and
always took care to carry a part of his
dinner to her, and in a short time he had
no more trouble with the rats and mice,
but slept quite sound every night.

Soon after this his master had a ship
ready to sail; and as he thought it right
that all his servants should have some
chance for good fortune as well as himself,
he called them all into the parlor
and asked them what they would send out.

They all had something that they were
willing to venture except poor Dick, who
had neither money nor goods, and therefore
could send nothing.

For this reason he did not come into
the parlor with the rest; but Miss Alice
guessed what was the matter and ordered
him to be called in. She then said she
would lay down some money for him
from her own purse; but the father told
her this would not do, for it must be something
of his own.

When poor Dick heard this, he said he
had nothing but a cat which he bought
for a penny some time since of a little
girl.

Dick went up stairs and brought down
poor puss, with tears in his eyes, and
gave her to the captain, for he said he
should now be kept awake again all night
by the rats and mice.

All the company laughed at Dick's odd
venture; and Miss Alice, who felt pity for
the poor boy, gave him some money to
buy another cat.

This and many other marks of kindness
shown him by Miss Alice made the ill-tempered
cook jealous of poor Dick, and
she began to use him more cruelly than
ever and always made game of him for
sending his cat to sea. She asked him
if he thought his cat would sell for as
much money as would buy a stick to beat
him.

At last poor Dick could not bear this
usage any longer, and he thought he
would run away from his place; so he[87]
packed up his few things and started very
early in the morning on All-hallows Day,
which is the first of November. He
walked as far as Holloway, and there sat
down on a stone, which to this day is
called Whittington's stone, and began
to think to himself which road he should
take as he proceeded.

While he was thinking what he should
do, the Bells of Bow Church, which at
that time had only six, began to ring,
and he fancied their sound seemed to say
to him:

"Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London."

"Lord Mayor of London!" said he to
himself. "Why, to be sure, I would put
up with almost anything now to be Lord
Mayor of London and ride in a fine
coach when I grow to be a man! Well,
I will go back and think nothing of the
cuffing and scolding of the old cook if I
am to be Lord Mayor of London at last."

Dick went back and was lucky enough
to get into the house and set about his
work before the old cook came downstairs.

The ship, with the cat on board, was a
long time at sea, and was at last driven
by the winds on a part of the coast of
Barbary where the only people were the
Moors, whom the English had never
known before.

The people then came in great numbers
to see the sailors, who were of different
color from themselves, and treated them
very civilly, and when they became better
acquainted were very eager to buy the
fine things that the ship was loaded
with.

When the captain saw this, he sent
patterns of the best things he had to the
king of the country, who was so much
pleased with them that he sent for the
captain to the palace. Here they were
placed, as it is the custom of the country,
on rich carpets marked with gold and
silver flowers. The king and queen
were seated at the upper end of the room,
and a number of dishes were brought in
for dinner. When they had sat but a
short time, a vast number of rats and
mice rushed in, helping themselves from
almost every dish. The captain wondered
at this and asked if these vermin
were not very unpleasant.

"Oh, yes," said they, "very offensive;
and the king would give half his treasure
to be freed of them, for they not only
destroy his dinner, as you see, but they
assault him in his chamber and even in
bed, so that he is obliged to be watched
while he is sleeping for fear of them."

The captain jumped for joy; he remembered
poor Whittington and his cat and
told the king he had a creature on board
the ship that would dispatch all these
vermin immediately. The king's heart
heaved so high at the joy which this news
gave him that his turban dropped off his
head. "Bring this creature to me,"
says he; "vermin are dreadful in a court,
and if she will perform what you say, I
will load your ship with gold and jewels
in exchange for her."

The captain, who knew his business,
took this opportunity to set forth the
merits of Mrs. Puss. He told his majesty
that it would be inconvenient to part
with her, as, when she was gone, the rats
and mice might destroy the goods in the
ship—but to oblige his majesty he
would fetch her. "Run, run!" said the
queen; "I am impatient to see the dear
creature."

Away went the captain to the ship,
while another dinner was got ready. He[88]
put puss under his arm and arrived at
the palace soon enough to see the table
full of rats.

When the cat saw them, she did not
wait for bidding, but jumped out of the
captain's arms and in a few minutes laid
almost all the rats and mice dead at her
feet. The rest of them in their fright
scampered away to their holes.

The king and queen were quite charmed
to get so easily rid of such plagues and
desired that the creature who had done
them so great a kindness might be
brought to them for inspection. The
captain called, "Pussy, pussy, pussy!"
and she came to him. He then presented
her to the queen, who started back and
was afraid to touch a creature who had
made such a havoc among the rats and
mice. However, when the captain stroked
the cat and called, "Pussy, pussy," the
queen also touched her and cried, "Putty,
putty," for she had not learned English.
He then put her down on the queen's lap;
where she, purring, played with her majesty's
hand and then sang herself to sleep.

The king, having seen the exploits of
Mrs. Puss and being informed that she
was with young and would stock the whole
country, bargained with the captain for
the whole ship's cargo and then gave
him ten times as much for the cat as
all the rest amounted to.

The captain then took leave of the
royal party and set sail with a fair wind
for England, and after a happy voyage
arrived safe in London.

One morning when Mr. Fitzwarren had
just come to his counting-house and
seated himself at the desk, somebody
came tap, tap, at the door. "Who's
there?" says Mr. Fitzwarren.

"A friend," answered the other; "I
come to bring you good news of your
ship Unicorn." The merchant, bustling
up instantly, opened the door, and who
should be seen waiting but the captain
with a cabinet of jewels and a bill of
lading, for which the merchant lifted up
his eyes and thanked heaven for sending
him such a prosperous voyage.

They then told the story of the cat
and showed the rich present that the
king and queen had sent for her to poor
Dick. As soon as the merchant heard
this, he called out to his servants:

"Go fetch him—we will tell him of the same;
Pray call him Mr. Whittington by name."

Mr. Fitzwarren now showed himself
to be a good man; for when some of
his servants said so great a treasure was
too much for him, he answered, "God
forbid I should deprive him of the value
of a single penny."

He then sent for Dick, who at that
time was scouring pots for the cook and
was quite dirty.

Mr. Fitzwarren ordered a chair to be
set for him, and so he began to think
they were making game of him, at the
same time begging them not to play
tricks with a poor simple boy, but to
let him go down again, if they pleased,
to his work.

"Indeed, Mr. Whittington," said the
merchant, "we are all quite in earnest
with you, and I most heartily rejoice in
the news these gentlemen have brought
you, for the captain has sold your cat
to the King of Barbary and brought you
in return for her more riches than I
possess in the whole world; and I wish
you may long enjoy them!"

Mr. Fitzwarren then told the men to
open the great treasure they had brought[89]
with them, and said, "Mr. Whittington
has nothing to do but to put it in some
place of safety."

Poor Dick hardly knew how to behave
himself for joy. He begged his master
to take what part of it he pleased, since
he owed it all to his kindness. "No, no,"
answered Mr. Fitzwarren, "this is all
your own, and I have no doubt but you
will use it well."

Dick next asked his mistress, and then
Miss Alice, to accept a part of his good
fortune; but they would not, and at the
same time told him they felt great joy
at his good success. But this poor fellow
was too kind-hearted to keep it all
to himself; so he made a present to the
captain, the mate, and the rest of Mr.
Fitzwarren's servants, and even to the
ill-natured old cook.

After this Mr. Fitzwarren advised him
to send for a proper tradesman and get
himself dressed like a gentleman, and
told him he was welcome to live in his
house till he could provide himself with
a better.

When Whittington's face was washed,
his hair curled, and his hat cocked, and
he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes,
he was as handsome and genteel as any
young man who visited at Mr. Fitzwarren's;
so that Miss Alice, who had
once been so kind to him and thought
of him with pity, now looked upon him
as fit to be her sweetheart; and the
more so, no doubt, because Whittington
was now always thinking what he could
do to oblige her and making her the
prettiest presents that could be.

Mr. Fitzwarren soon saw their love
for each other and proposed to join them
in marriage, and to this they both readily
agreed. A day for the wedding was soon
fixed; and they were attended to church
by the Lord Mayor, the court of aldermen,
the sheriffs, and a great number of
the richest merchants in London, whom
they afterwards treated with a very rich
feast.

History tells us that Mr. Whittington
and his lady lived in great splendor and
were very happy. They had several
children. He was Sheriff of London,
also Mayor, and received the honor of
knighthood by Henry V.

The figure of Sir Richard Whittington
with his cat in his arms, carved in stone,
was to be seen till the year 1780 over
the archway of the old prison of Newgate
that stood across Newgate Street.

The next story came from Suffolk, England,
and the original is in the pronounced dialect
of that county. Mr. Jacobs thinks it one
of the best folk tales ever collected. The
version given follows Jacobs in reducing the
dialect. There is enough left, however,
to raise the question of the use of dialect
in stories for children. Some modern versions
eliminate the dialect altogether. It
is certain that the retention of some of the
qualities of the folk-telling makes it more
dramatically effective and appropriate.
The original form of the story may be seen
in Hartland's English Fairy and Folk Tales.
Teachers should feel free to use their judgment
as to the best form in which to tell
a story to children. Name-guessing stories
are very common, and may be "a 'survival'
of the superstition that to know a
man's name gives you power over him,
for which reason savages object to tell their
names." The Grimm story of "Rumpelstiltskin"
is the best known of many variants
(No. 178). "Tom Tit Tot" has a
rude vigor and dramatic force not in the
continental versions, and it will be interesting
to compare it with the Grimm tale.[90]
Jacobs suggests that "it may be necessary
to explain to the little ones that Tom Tit
can be referred to only as 'that,' because
his name is not known until the end."

TOM TIT TOT

Once upon a time there was a woman,
and she baked five pies. And when they
came out of the oven, they were that over-baked
the crusts were too hard to eat.
So she says to her daughter: "Darter,"
says she, "put you them there pies on
the shelf, and leave 'em there a little,
and they'll come again."—She meant,
you know, the crust would get soft.

But the girl, she says to herself, "Well,
if they'll come again, I'll eat 'em now."
And she set to work and ate 'em all,
first and last.

Well, come supper-time the woman
said, "Go you and get one o' them there
pies. I dare say they've come again
now."

The girl went and she looked, and there
was nothing but the dishes. So back
she came and says she, "Noo, they ain't
come again."

"Not one of 'em?" says the mother.

"Not one of 'em," says she.

"Well, come again or not come again,"
said the woman, "I'll have one for
supper."

"But you can't if they ain't come,"
said the girl.

"But I can," says she. "Go you and
bring the best of 'em."

"Best or worst," says the girl, "I've
ate 'em all, and you can't have one till
that's come again."

Well, the woman she was done, and
she took her spinning to the door to
spin, and as she span she sang:

"Stars o' mine!" said the king, "I
never heard tell of any one that could
do that."

Then he said, "Look you here, I want
a wife, and I'll marry your daughter.
But look you here," says he, "eleven
months out of the year she shall have
all she likes to eat, and all the gowns she
likes to get, and all the company she
likes to keep; but the last month of
the year she'll have to spin five skeins
every day, and if she don't I shall kill
her."

"All right," says the woman; for she
thought what a grand marriage that was.
And as for the five skeins, when the time
came, there'd be plenty of ways of getting
out of it, and likeliest, he'd have
forgotten all about it.

Well, so they were married. And for
eleven months the girl had all she liked
to eat and all the gowns she liked to get
and all the company she liked to keep.

But when the time was getting over,
she began to think about the skeins and
to wonder if he had 'em in mind. But
not one word did he say about 'em, and
she thought he'd wholly forgotten 'em.

However, the first day of the last month
he takes her to a room she'd never set
eyes on before. There was nothing in
it but a spinning-wheel and a stool.
And says he, "Now, my dear, here you'll
be shut in to-morrow with some victuals[91]
and some flax, and if you haven't spun
five skeins by the night, your head'll
go off." And away he went about his
business.

Well, she was that frightened, she'd
always been such a gatless girl, that she
didn't so much as know how to spin,
and what was she to do to-morrow with
no one to come nigh her to help her?
She sat down on a stool in the kitchen,
and law! how she did cry!

However, all of a sudden she heard a
sort of a knocking low down on the door.
She upped and oped it, and what should
she see but a small little black thing with
a long tail. That looked up at her right
curious, and that said, "What are you
a-crying for?"

"What's that to you?" says she.

"Never you mind," that said, "but
tell me what you're a-crying for."

"That won't do me no good if I do,"
says she.

"You don't know that," that said, and
twirled that's tail round.

"Well," says she, "that won't do no
harm, if that don't do no good," and she
upped and told about the pies and the
skeins and everything.

"This is what I'll do," says the little
black thing, "I'll come to your window
every morning and take the flax and bring
it spun at night."

"What's your pay?" says she.

That looked out of the corner of that's
eyes, and that said, "I'll give you three
guesses every night to guess my name,
and if you haven't guessed it before the
month's up you shalt be mine."

Well, she thought she'd be sure to guess
that's name before the month was up.
"All right," says she, "I agree."

"All right," that says, and law! how
that twirled that's tail.

Well, the next day her husband took
her into the room, and there was the
flax and the day's food.

"Now, there's the flax," says he, "and
if that ain't spun up this night, off goes
your head." And then he went out and
locked the door.

He'd hardly gone when there was
a knocking against the window. She
upped and she oped it, and there sure
enough was the little old thing sitting
on the ledge.

"Where's the flax?" says he.

"Here it be," says she. And she gave
it to him.

Well, come the evening a knocking came
again to the window. She upped and she
oped it, and there was the little old thing
with five skeins of flax on his arm.

"Here it be," says he, and he gave it
to her. "Now, what's my name?" says
he. "What, is that Bill?" says she.
"Noo, that ain't," says he, and he
twirled his tail. "Is that Ned?" says
she. "Noo, that ain't," says he, and he
twirled his tail. "Well, is that Mark?"
says she. "Noo, that ain't," says he,
and he twirled his tail harder, and away
he flew.

Well, when her husband came in, there
were the five skeins ready for him. "I
see I shan't have to kill you to-night,
my dear," says he; "you'll have your
food and your flax in the morning," says
he, and away he goes.

Well, every day the flax and the food
were brought, and every day that there
little black impet used to come mornings
and evenings. And all the day the girl
sat trying to think of names to say to it
when it came at night. But she never
hit on the right one. And as it got
towards the end of the month, the impet
began to look so maliceful, and that[92]
twirled that's tail faster and faster each
time she gave a guess.

At last it came to the last day but one.
The impet came at night along with the
five skeins, and that said, "What, ain't
you got my name yet?" "Is that Nicodemus?"
says she. "Noo, 't ain't,"
that says. "Is that Sammle?" says she.
"Noo, 't ain't," that says. "A-well, is
that Methusalem?" says she. "Noo,
't ain't that neither," that says.

Then that looks at her with that's
eyes like a coal o' fire, and that says,
"Woman, there's only to-morrow night,
and then you'll be mine!" And away
it flew.

Well, she felt that horrid. However
she heard the king coming along the
passage. In he came, and when he sees
the five skeins, says he, "Well, my dear,
I don't see but what you'll have your
skeins ready to-morrow night as well
and as I reckon I shan't have to kill you,
I'll have supper in here to-night." So
they brought supper and another stool
for him, and down the two sat.

Well, he hadn't eaten but a mouthful
or so, when he stops and begins to laugh.

"What is it?" says she.

"A-why," says he, "I was out a-hunting
to-day, and I got away to a place
in the wood I'd never seen before. And
there was an old chalk-pit. And I heard
a kind of a sort of humming. So I got
off my hobby, and I went right quiet to
the pit, and I looked down. Well, what
should there be but the funniest little
black thing you ever set eyes on. And
what was that doing, but that had a
little spinning-wheel, and that was spinning
wonderful fast, and twirling that's
tail. And as that span that sang:

"Nimmy nimmy not
My name's Tom Tit Tot."

Well, when the girl heard this, she
felt as if she could have jumped out of
her skin for joy, but she didn't say a
word.

Next day that there little thing looked
so maliceful when he came for the flax.
And when night came she heard that
knocking against the window panes.
She oped the window, and that come
right in on the ledge. That was grinning
from ear to ear, and Oo! that's tail was
twirling round so fast.

"What's my name?" that says, as
that gave her the skeins. "Is that
Solomon?" she says, pretending to be
afeard. "Noo, 't ain't," that says, and
that came further into the room. "Well,
is that Zebedee?" says she again. "Noo,
't ain't," says the impet. And then that
laughed and twirled that's tail till you
couldn't hardly see it.

"Take time, woman," that says;
"next guess, and you're mine." And
that stretched out that's black hands at
her.

Well, she backed a step or two, and she
looked at it, and then she laughed out
and says she, pointing her finger at it:

"Nimmy nimmy not
Your name's Tom Tit Tot."

Well, when that heard her, that gave
an awful shriek and away that flew into
the dark, and she never saw it any more.

In 1697 the French author Charles Perrault
(1628-1703) published a little collection of
eight tales in prose familiarly known as
The Tales of Mother Goose (Contes de Ma
Mère l'Oye). These tales were "The
Fairies" ("Toads and Diamonds"), "The
Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," "Bluebeard,"
"Little Red Riding Hood," "Puss-in-Boots,"
"Cinderella," "Rique with the[93]
Tuft," and "Little Thumb." Perrault was
prominent as a scholar and may have felt
it beneath his dignity to write nursery
tales. At any rate he declared the stories
were copied from tellings by his eleven-year-old
son. But Perrault's fairies have
not only saved him from oblivion: in countless
editions and translations they have
won him immortality. The charming literary
form of his versions, "Englished by
R. S., Gent," about 1730, soon established
them in place of the more somber English
popular versions. It is practically certain
that the name Mother Goose, as that of the
genial old lady who presides over the light
literature of the nursery, was established
by the work of Perrault.

"Little Red Riding Hood," a likely candidate
for first place in the affections of childish
story-lovers, is here given in its "correct"
form. Many versions are so constructed
as to have happy endings, either by having
the woodmen appear in the nick of time to
kill the wolf before any damage is done, or
by having the grandmother and Little Red
Riding Hood restored to life after recovering
them from the "innards" of the wolf.
Andrew Lang thinks that the tale as it
stands is merely meant to waken a child's
terror and pity, after the fashion of the old
Greek tragedies, and that the narrator
properly ends it by making a pounce, in
the character of wolf, at the little listener.
That this was the correct "business" in
Scotch nurseries is borne out by a sentence
in Chambers' Popular Rhymes of Scotland:
"The old nurse's imitation of the gnash,
gnash, which she played off upon the youngest
urchin lying in her lap, was electric."

LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD

Once upon a time there lived in a certain
village a little country girl, the
prettiest creature that was ever seen.
Her mother was excessively fond of her;
and her grandmother doted on her still
more. This good woman got made for
her a little red riding-hood, which became
the girl so extremely well that everybody
called her Little Red Riding-Hood.

One day her mother, having made
some custards, said to her, "Go, my
dear, and see how thy grandmamma
does, for I hear that she has been very
ill; carry her a custard and this little
pot of butter."

Little Red Riding-Hood set out immediately
to go to her grandmother, who
lived in another village.

As she was going through the wood,
she met with Gaffer Wolf, who had a
very great mind to eat her up, but he
durst not because of some fagot-makers
hard by in the forest. He asked her
whither she was going. The poor child,
who did not know that it was dangerous
to stay and hear a wolf talk, said to him,
"I am going to see my grandmamma and
carry her a custard and a little pot of
butter from my mamma."

"Does she live far off?" said the wolf.

"Oh! aye," answered Little Red
Riding-Hood, "it is beyond the mill
you see there at the first house in the
village."

"Well," said the wolf, "and I'll go
and see her too. I'll go this way and
you go that, and we shall see who will be
there soonest."

The wolf began to run as fast as he
could, taking the nearest way, and the
little girl went by that farthest about,
diverting herself by gathering nuts, running
after butterflies, and making nosegays
of such little flowers as she met with.
The wolf was not long before he got to
the old woman's house. He knocked at
the door—tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

"Your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood,"
replied the wolf, counterfeiting[94]
her voice, "who has brought you a
custard and a pot of butter sent you
by mamma."

The good grandmother, who was in
bed because she was somewhat ill, cried
out, "Pull the bobbin and the latch will
go up."

The wolf pulled the bobbin and the
door opened, and then presently he fell
upon the good woman and ate her up
in a moment, for it was above three days
that he had not touched a bit. He then
shut the door and went into the grandmother's
bed, expecting Little Red Riding-Hood,
who came some time afterward
and knocked at the door—tap, tap.

"Who's there?"

Little Red Riding-Hood, hearing the
big voice of the wolf, was at first afraid,
but believing her grandmother had got
a cold and was hoarse, answered, "'Tis
your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood,
who has brought you a custard and a
little pot of butter mamma sends you."

The wolf cried out to her, softening
his voice as much as he could, "Pull the
bobbin and the latch will go up."

Little Red Riding-Hood pulled the
bobbin and the door opened.

The wolf, seeing her come in, said to
her, hiding himself under the bedclothes,
"Put the custard and the little pot of
butter upon the stool and come and lie
down with me."

Little Red Riding-Hood undressed herself
and went into bed, where, being
greatly amazed to see how her grandmother
looked in her night-clothes, she
said to her, "Grandmamma, what great
arms you have got!"

"That is the better to hug thee, my
dear."

"Grandmamma, what great legs you
have got!"

"That is to run the better, my child."

"Grandmamma, what great ears you
have got!"

"That is to hear the better, my child."

"Grandmamma, what great eyes you
have got!"

"It is to see the better, my child."

"Grandmamma, what great teeth you
have got!"

"That is to eat thee up."

And saying these words, this wicked
wolf fell upon Little Red Riding-Hood
and ate her all up.

Because many modern teachers are distressed
at the tragedy of the real story of "Little
Red Riding Hood" as just given, they prefer
some softened form of the tale. The
Grimm version, "Little Red Cap," is generally
used by those who insist on a happy
ending. There Little Red Riding Hood and
her grandmother are both recovered and
the wicked wolf destroyed. The story that
follows is from a modern French author,
Charles Marelles, and is given in the translation
found in Lang's Red Fairy Book.
In it the events are dramatically imagined
in detail, even if the writer does turn it
all into a sunflower myth at the close.

TRUE HISTORY OF LITTLE
GOLDEN HOOD

You know the tale of poor Little Red
Riding-Hood, that the wolf deceived and
devoured, with her cake, her little butter
can, and her grandmother. Well, the
true story happened quite differently, as
we know now. And first of all, the
little girl was called and is still called
Little Golden Hood; secondly, it was
not she, nor the good granddame, but
the wicked wolf who was, in the end,
caught and devoured.

There was once a little peasant girl,
pretty and nice as a star in its season.
Her real name was Blanchette, but she
was more often called Little Golden
Hood, on account of a wonderful little
cloak with a hood, gold and fire colored,
which she always had on. This little
hood was given her by her grandmother,
who was so old that she did not know
her age; it ought to bring her good
luck, for it was made of a ray of sunshine,
she said. And as the good old woman
was considered something of a witch,
every one thought the little hood rather
bewitched too.

And so it was, as you will see.

One day the mother said to the child:
"Let us see, my little Golden Hood, if
you know now how to find your way by
yourself. You shall take this good piece
of cake to your grandmother for a Sunday
treat to-morrow. You will ask her
how she is, and come back at once,
without stopping to chatter on the way
with people you don't know. Do you
quite understand?"

"I quite understand," replied Blanchette
gayly. And off she went with the
cake, quite proud of her errand.

But the grandmother lived in another
village, and there was a big wood to
cross before getting there. At a turn
of the road under the trees suddenly,
"Who goes there?"

"Friend Wolf."

He had seen the child start alone, and
the villain was waiting to devour her,
when at the same moment he perceived
some wood-cutters who might observe
him, and he changed his mind. Instead
of falling upon Blanchette he came frisking
up to her like a good dog.

"'Tis you! my nice Little Golden
Hood," said he. So the little girl stops
to talk with the wolf, whom, for all that,
she did not know in the least.

"You know me, then!" said she.
"What is your name?"

"My name is friend Wolf. And where
are you going thus, my pretty one, with
your little basket on your arm?"

"I am going to my grandmother to
take her a good piece of cake for her
Sunday treat to-morrow."

"And where does she live, your grandmother?"

"She lives at the other side of the wood
in the first house in the village, near the
windmill, you know."

"Ah! yes! I know now," said the
wolf. "Well, that's just where I'm
going. I shall get there before you, no
doubt, with your little bits of legs, and
I'll tell her you're coming to see her;
then she'll wait for you."

Thereupon the wolf cuts across the
wood, and in five minutes arrives at the
grandmother's house.

He knocks at the door: toc, toc.

No answer.

He knocks louder.

Nobody.

Then he stands up on end, puts his
two fore paws on the latch, and the door
opens.

Not a soul in the house.

The old woman had risen early to sell
herbs in the town, and had gone off in such
haste that she had left her bed unmade,
with her great night-cap on the pillow.

"Good!" said the wolf to himself, "I
know what I'll do."

He shuts the door, pulls on the grandmother's
night-cap down to his eyes;
then he lies down all his length in the
bed and draws the curtains.

In the meantime the good Blanchette
went quietly on her way, as little girls[96]
do, amusing herself here and there by
picking Easter daisies, watching the
little birds making their nests, and running
after the butterflies which fluttered
in the sunshine.

At last she arrives at the door.

Knock, knock.

"Who is there?" says the wolf, softening
his rough voice as best he can.

"Ahem! a little, my dear, a little,"
replies the wolf, pretending to cough.
"Shut the door well, my little lamb.
Put your basket on the table, and then
take off your frock and come and lie
down by me; you shall rest a little."

The good child undresses, but observe
this:—she kept her little hood upon her
head. When she saw what a figure her
granny cut in bed, the poor little thing
was much surprised.

"Oh!" cries she, "how like you are to
friend Wolf, grandmother!"

"That's on account of my night-cap,
child," replies the wolf.

"Oh! what hairy arms you've got,
grandmother!"

"All the better to hug you, my child."

"Oh! what a big tongue you've got,
grandmother!"

"All the better for answering, child."

"Oh! what a mouthful of great white
teeth you have, grandmother!"

"That's for crunching little children
with!" And the wolf opened his jaws
wide to swallow Blanchette.

But she put down her head, crying,
"Mamma! mamma!" and the wolf only
caught her little hood.

Thereupon, oh, dear! oh, dear! he
draws back, crying and shaking his jaw
as if he had swallowed red-hot coals.

It was the little fire-colored hood that
had burnt his tongue right down his
throat.

The little hood, you see, was one of
those magic caps that they used to have
in former times, in the stories, for making
one's self invisible or invulnerable.

So there was the wolf with his throat
burned, jumping off the bed and trying
to find the door, howling and howling as
if all the dogs in the country were at his
heels.

Just at this moment the grandmother
arrives, returning from the town with
her long sack empty on her shoulder.

"Ah, brigand!" she cries, "wait a bit!"
Quickly she opens her sack wide across
the door, and the maddened wolf springs
in head downward.

It is he now that is caught, swallowed
like a letter in the post. For the brave
old dame shuts her sack, so; and she
runs and empties it in the well, where
the vagabond, still howling, tumbles in
and is drowned.

"Ah, scoundrel! you thought you
would crunch my little grandchild! Well,
to-morrow we will make her a muff of
your skin, and you yourself shall be
crunched, for we will give your carcass
to the dogs."

Thereupon the grandmother hastened
to dress poor Blanchette, who was still
trembling with fear in the bed.

"Well," she said to her, "without my
little hood where would you be now, darling?"
And, to restore heart and legs to
the child, she made her eat a good piece[97]
of her cake, and drink a good draught
of wine, after which she took her by
the hand and led her back to the house.

And then, who was it who scolded her
when she knew all that had happened?

It was the mother.

But Blanchette promised over and
over again that she would never more
stop to listen to a wolf, so that at last
the mother forgave her.

And Blanchette, the Little Golden
Hood, kept her word. And in fine
weather she may still be seen in the
fields with her pretty little hood, the
color of the sun.

The next Perrault story is given in the traditional
English form made by "R. S., Gent."
Perrault met the popular taste of his time
for "morals" by adding more or less playful
ones in verse to his stories. Here is a
prose rendering of a portion of the Moralité
attached to "Puss-in-Boots": "However
great may be the advantage of enjoying a
rich inheritance coming down from father
to son, industry and ingenuity are worth
more to young people as a usual thing than
goods acquired without personal effort."
In relation to this moral, Ralston says,
"the conclusion at which an ordinary
reader would arrive, if he were not dazzled
by fairy-land glamor, would probably be
that far better than either tact and industry
on a master's part is the loyalty of an
unscrupulous retainer of an imaginative
turn of mind. The impropriety of this
teaching is not balanced by any other form
of instruction. What the story openly
inculcates is not edifying, and it does not
secretly convey any improving doctrine."
But on the other hand it may be argued
that the "moral" passes over the child's
head. Miss Kready, in her Study of Fairy
Tales (p. 275), makes a very elaborate and
proper defense of "Puss-in-Boots" as a
story for children. There is delight in its
strong sense of adventure, it has a hero
clever and quick, there is loyalty, love, and
sacrifice in Puss's devotion to his master,
the tricks are true to "cat-nature," there
are touches of nature beauty, a simple and
pleasing plot, while we should not forget
the delightful Ogre and his transformations
into Lion and Mouse. The story is found
in many forms among many different
peoples. Perhaps the great stroke of genius
which endears Perrault's version is in the
splendid boots with which his tale provides
the hero so that briers may not interfere
with his doings. (Extended studies of this
tale and its many parallels may be found in
Lang's Perrault's Popular Tales; in McCulloch's
Childhood of Fiction, chap. viii; in
an article by Ralston in the Nineteenth
Century, January, 1883, reprinted in Living
Age, Vol. CLVI, p. 362.)

PUSS-IN-BOOTS

There was once a miller who left no
more estate to the three sons he had than
his mill, his ass, and his cat. The partition
was soon made. Neither the clerk
nor the attorney was sent for. They
would soon have eaten up all the poor
patrimony. The eldest had the mill,
the second the ass, and the youngest
nothing but the cat.

The poor young fellow was quite comfortless
at having so poor a lot. "My
brothers," said he, "may get their living
handsomely enough by joining their
stocks together; but for my part, when
I have eaten up my cat and made me a
muff of his skin, I must die with hunger."

The cat, who heard all this, but made
as if he did not, said to him with a grave
and serious air; "Do not thus afflict
yourself, my good master; you have
nothing else to do but to give me a bag[98]
and get a pair of boots made for me, that
I may scamper through the dirt and the
brambles, and you shall see that you have
not so bad a portion of me as you imagine."

Though the cat's master did not build
very much upon what he said, he had,
however, often seen him play a great
many cunning tricks to catch rats and
mice; as when he used to hang by the
heels, or hide himself in the meal and
make as if he were dead; so he did not
altogether despair of his affording him
some help in his miserable condition.

When the cat had what he asked for,
he booted himself very gallantly; and
putting his bag about his neck, he held
the strings of it in his two fore paws and
went into a warren where was a great
abundance of rabbits. He put bran and
sow-thistles into his bag, and, stretching
himself out at length as if he had been
dead, he waited for some young rabbits,
not yet acquainted with the deceits of
the world, to come and rummage his
bag for what he had just put into it.

Scarce was he lain down but he had
what he wanted. A rash and foolish
young rabbit jumped into his bag, and
master Puss, immediately drawing close
the strings, took and killed him without
pity. Proud of his prey, he went with it
to the palace and asked to speak with
his majesty. He was shown upstairs
into the king's apartment, and, making
a low reverence, said to him: "I have
brought you, sir, a rabbit of the warren
which my noble lord, the Marquis of
Carabas" (for that was the title which
Puss was pleased to give his master), "has
commanded me to present to your
majesty from him."

"Tell thy master," said the king,
"that I thank him and that he gives me
a great deal of pleasure."

Another time he went and hid himself
among some standing corn, holding still
his bag open; and when a brace of partridges
ran into it, he drew the strings and
so caught them both. He went and made
a present of these to the king, as he had
done before of the rabbit which he took
in the warren. The king in like manner
received the partridges with great pleasure
and ordered him some money.

The cat continued for two or three
months thus to carry his majesty, from
time to time, game of his master's taking.
One day in particular, when he knew for
certain that he was to take the air along
the riverside with his daughter, the most
beautiful princess in the world, he said
to his master: "If you will follow my
advice, your fortune is made. You have
nothing else to do but go and wash yourself
in the river, in that part I shall show
you, and leave the rest to me." The
Marquis of Carabas did what the cat
advised him to, without knowing why or
wherefore.

While he was washing, the king passed
by, and the cat began to cry out as loud
as he could, "Help, help! my lord Marquis
of Carabas is going to be drowned." At
this noise the king put his head out of
his coach-window, and, finding it was the
cat who had so often brought him such
good game, he commanded his guards
to run immediately to the assistance of
his lordship, the Marquis of Carabas.

While they were drawing the poor marquis
out of the river, the cat came up to
the coach and told the king that while
his master was washing there came by
some rogues, who went off with his clothes
though he had cried out, "Thieves,
thieves," as loud as he could. This
cunning cat had hidden them under a
great stone. The king immediately[99]
commanded the officers of his wardrobe
to run and fetch one of his best suits for
the lord Marquis of Carabas.

The king caressed him after a very
extraordinary manner; and as the fine
clothes he had given him extremely set
off his good mien (for he was well made
and very handsome in his person), the
king's daughter took a secret inclination
to him, and the Marquis of Carabas had
no sooner cast two or three respectful
and somewhat tender glances, but she
fell in love with him to distraction. The
king would needs have him come into his
coach and take part of the airing. The
cat, quite overjoyed to see his project
begin to succeed, marched on before, and
meeting with some countrymen who were
mowing a meadow, he said to them,
"Good people, you who are mowing, if
you do not tell the king, who will soon
pass this way, that the meadow you
mow belongs to my lord Marquis of
Carabas, you shall be chopped as small
as herbs for the pot."

The king did not fail asking of the
mowers to whom the meadow they were
mowing belonged: "To my lord Marquis
of Carabas," answered they, all
together, for the cat's threats had made
them terribly afraid.

"You see, sir," said the marquis, "this
is a meadow which never fails to yield a
plentiful harvest every year."

The master-cat, who went still on
before, met with some reapers, and said
to them, "Good people, you who are
reaping, if you do not tell the king, who
will presently go by, that all this corn
belongs to the Marquis of Carabas, you
shall be chopped as small as herbs for the
pot."

The king, who passed by a moment
after, would needs know to whom all
that corn, which he then saw, did belong.
"To my lord Marquis of Carabas,"
replied the reapers; and the king was
very well pleased with it, as well as the
marquis, whom he congratulated thereupon.
The master-cat, who went always
before, said the same words to all he
met; and the king was astonished at
the vast estates of my lord Marquis of
Carabas.

Master Puss came at last to a stately
castle, the owner of which was an ogre,
the richest that had ever been known,
for all the lands which the king had then
gone over belonged to this castle. The
cat, who had taken care to inform himself
who the ogre was and what he could
do, asked to speak with him, saying he
could not pass so near his castle without
having the honor of paying his respects
to him.

The ogre received him as civilly as an
ogre could do and made him sit down.
"I have been assured," said the cat,
"that you have the gift of being able to
change yourself into all sorts of creatures
you have a mind to. You can, for example,
transform yourself into a lion, or
elephant, and the like."

"This is true," answered the ogre very
briskly, "and to convince you, you shall
see me now become a lion."

Puss was so sadly terrified at the sight
of a lion so near him that he immediately
got into the gutter, not without abundance
of trouble and danger, because of
his boots, which were of no use at all to
him in walking upon the tiles. A little
while after, when Puss saw that the ogre
had resumed his natural form, he came
down and owned he had been very much
frightened.

"I have been, moreover, informed,"
said the cat, "but I know not how to[100]
believe it, that you have also the power
to take on you the shape of the smallest
animals; for example, to change yourself
into a rat or a mouse; but I must own to
you, I take this to be impossible."

"Impossible!" cried the ogre, "you
shall see that presently," and at the same
time changed himself into a mouse, and
began to run about the floor. Puss no
sooner perceived this but he fell upon
him and ate him up.

Meanwhile, the king, who saw, as he
passed, this fine castle of the ogre's, had
a mind to go into it. Puss, who heard
the noise of his majesty's coach running
over the drawbridge, ran out and said to
the king, "Your Majesty is welcome to
this castle of my lord Marquis of Carabas."

"What! my lord Marquis!" cried the
king, "and does this castle also belong
to you? There can be nothing finer
than this court and all the stately buildings
which surround it; let us go into
it, if you please." They passed into a
spacious hall, where they found a magnificent
collation which the ogre had
prepared for his friends, who were that
very day to visit him, but dared not to
enter, knowing the king was there. His
majesty was perfectly charmed with the
good qualities of my lord Marquis of
Carabas, as was his daughter, who had
fallen in love with him; and seeing the
vast estate he possessed, said to him
while they sat at the feast, "It will be
owing to yourself only, my lord Marquis,
if you are not my son-in-law." The
marquis, making several low bows,
accepted the honor which his majesty
conferred upon him, and forthwith, that
very same day, married the princess.

Puss became a great lord, and never
ran after mice any more, but only for
his diversion.

Perrault attached to the next story this moral:
"Diamonds and dollars influence minds,
and yet gentle words have more effect and
are more to be esteemed. . . . It is a
lot of trouble to be upright and it requires
some effort, but sooner or later it finds its
reward, and generally when one is least
expecting it." English versions are usually
given the title "Toads and Diamonds,"
though Perrault's title was simply "The
Fairies" ("Les Fées"). Lang calls attention
to the fact that the origin of the story is
"manifestly moral." He thinks "it is an
obvious criticism that the elder girl should
have met the fairy first; she was not likely
to behave so rudely when she knew that
politeness would be rewarded." It would
be interesting for a story-teller to test the
effect of relating the incidents in the order
suggested by Lang.

TOADS AND DIAMONDS

There was once upon a time a widow
who had two daughters. The oldest was
so much like her in face and humor that
whoever looked upon the daughter saw
the mother. They were both so disagreeable
and so proud that there was
no living with them. The youngest, who
was the very picture of her father for
courtesy and sweetness of temper, was
withal one of the most beautiful girls
that was ever seen. As people naturally
love their own likenesses, this mother
ever doted on her eldest daughter and
at the same time had a sad aversion for
the youngest. She made her eat in the
kitchen and work continually.

Among other things, this poor child
was forced twice a day to draw water
above a mile and a half from the house,
and bring home a pitcher full of it. One
day as she was at this fountain there
came to her a poor woman, who begged[101]
of her to let her drink. "Oh, yes, with all
my heart, Goody," said this pretty little
girl; and rinsing the pitcher, she took
up some water from the clearest place of
the fountain and gave it to her, holding
up the pitcher all the while that she might
drink the easier.

The good woman having drunk, said
to her, "You are so very pretty, my dear,
so good and so mannerly, that I cannot
help giving you a gift"—for this was a
fairy, who had taken the form of a poor
country woman to see how far the civility
and good manners of this pretty girl
would go. "I will give you for gift,"
continued the fairy, "that at every word
you speak, there shall come out of your
mouth either a flower or a jewel."

When this pretty girl came home, her
mother scolded at her for staying so long
at the fountain. "I beg your pardon,
mamma," said the poor girl, "for not making
more haste"; and, in speaking these
words, there came out of her mouth two
roses, two pearls, and two large diamonds.

"What is it I see there?" said her
mother quite astonished. "I think I see
pearls and diamonds come out of the
girl's mouth! How happens this, my
child?"—This was the first time she
ever called her her child.

The poor creature told her frankly all
the matter, not without dropping out
infinite numbers of diamonds. "In good
faith," cried the mother, "I must send
my child thither. Come hither, Fanny.
Look what comes out of your sister's
mouth when she speaks! Would you not
be glad, my dear, to have the same gift
given to you? You have nothing else
to do but go draw water out of the fountain,
and when a certain poor woman
asks you to let her drink, to give it her
very civilly."

"It would be a very fine sight, indeed,"
said this ill-bred minx, "to see me go
draw water!"

"You shall go, hussy," said the mother,
"and this minute." So away she went,
but grumbling all the way and taking
with her the best silver tankard in the
house.

She was no sooner at the fountain than
she saw coming out of the wood a lady
most gloriously dressed, who came up
to her and asked to drink. This was,
you must know, the very fairy who
appeared to her sister, but who had now
taken the air and dress of a princess to
see how far this girl's rudeness would go.
"Am I come hither," said the proud,
saucy maid, "to serve you with water,
pray? I suppose the silver tankard was
brought purely for your ladyship, was
it? However, you may drink out of it,
if you have a fancy."

"You are not over and above mannerly,"
answered the fairy, without putting
herself in a passion. "Well, then,
since you have so little breeding and are
so disobliging, I give you for gift, that at
every word you speak there shall come
out of your mouth a snake or a toad."

So soon as her mother saw her coming,
she cried out, "Well, daughter."

"Well, mother," answered the pert
hussy, throwing out of her mouth two
vipers and two toads.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the mother, "what
is it I see? Oh, it is that wretch, her sister,
who has occasioned all this; but she
shall pay for it"; and immediately she
ran to beat her. The poor child fled
away from her and went to hide herself
in the forest, not far from thence.

The king's son, then on his return from
hunting, met her, and seeing her so very
pretty, asked her what she did there[102]
alone, and why she cried. "Alas, sir!
my mamma has turned me out of doors."
The king's son, who saw five or six pearls,
and as many diamonds, come out of her
mouth, desired her to tell him how that
happened. She thereupon told him the
whole story; and so the king's son fell
in love with her; and, considering with
himself that such a gift was worth more
than any marriage-portion whatsoever
in another, he conducted her to the
palace of the king his father and there
married her.

As for her sister, she made herself so
much hated that her own mother turned
her off; and the miserable girl, having
wandered about a good while without
finding anybody to take her in, went to
a corner in the wood and there died.

"Cinderella" is one of the world's greatest
romantic stories. Its theme is a favorite
in all folk literature. Young and old alike
have never tired of hearing of the victories
won by the deserving in the face of all sorts
of obstacles. Perrault in his verse moral
observes that "while beauty is a rare
treasure for a woman, yet a winning manner,
or personality, is worth even more."
Still further, as if conscious of the part
influence plays in the world, he says that
"while it is doubtless a great advantage to
have wit and courage, breeding and good
sense, and other such natural endowments,
still they will be of no earthly use for our
advancement unless we have, to bring them
into play, either godfathers or godmothers."
One should not, however, take too seriously
any moralizing over a fairy story
whether by Perrault or another.

In one of the most thorough studies of a single
folk tale, Miss Roalfe Cox's Cinderella,
with an introduction by Andrew Lang,
some three hundred and fifty variants of
the story have been analyzed. The thing
that marks a Cinderella story is the presence
in it of the "slipper test." The finest versions
are those by Perrault and the Grimms,
and they are almost equally favorites with
children. The Perrault form as found in
the old English translation is given here
for reasons stated by Ralston in his study
of the Cinderella type: "But Perrault's
rendering of the tale naturalised it in the
polite world, gave it for cultured circles an
attraction which it is never likely to lose. . . .
It is with human more than with
mythological interest that the story is
replete, and therefore it appeals to human
hearts with a force which no lapse of time
can diminish. Such supernatural machinery
as is introduced, moreover, has a charm
for children which older versions of the
tale do not possess. The pumpkin carriage,
the rat coachman, the lizard lacqueys, and
all the other properties of the transformation
scene, appeal at once to the imagination
and the sense of humor of every
beholder." (Nineteenth Century, November,
1879.)

CINDERELLA, OR THE LITTLE
GLASS SLIPPER

Once there was a gentleman who married,
for his second wife, the proudest and
most haughty woman that was ever seen.
She had, by a former husband, two daughters
of her own humor, who were indeed
exactly like her in all things. He had
likewise, by another wife, a young daughter,
but of unparalleled goodness and
sweetness of temper, which she took from
her mother, who was the best creature in
the world.

No sooner were the ceremonies of the
wedding over but the step-mother began
to show herself in her colors. She could
not bear the good qualities of this pretty
girl; and the less because they made her[103]
own daughters appear the more odious.
She employed her in the meanest work
of the house; she scoured the dishes and
tables, and cleaned madam's room and
the rooms of misses, her daughters; she
lay up in a sorry garret, upon a wretched
straw-bed, while her sisters lay in fine
rooms, with floors all inlaid, upon beds
of the very newest fashion, and where
they had looking-glasses so large that
they might see themselves at their full
length, from head to foot.

The poor girl bore all patiently, and
dared not tell her father, who would have
rattled her off, for his wife governed him
entirely. When she had done her work,
she used to go into the chimney corner
and sit down among cinders and ashes,
which made her commonly called Cinder-wench;
but the youngest, who was not
so rude and uncivil as the eldest, called
her Cinderella. However, Cinderella,
notwithstanding her mean apparel, was
a hundred times handsomer than her
sisters, though they were always dressed
very richly.

It happened that the king's son gave a
ball, and invited all persons of fashion to
it. Our young misses were also invited,
for they cut a very grand figure among
the quality. They were mightily delighted
at this invitation, and wonderfully
busy in choosing out such gowns,
petticoats, and head-clothes as might
best become them. This was a new
trouble to Cinderella, for it was she who
ironed her sisters' linen and plaited their
ruffles. They talked all day long of
nothing but how they should be dressed.
"For my part," said the eldest, "I will
wear my red velvet suit with French
trimmings."

"And I," said the youngest, "shall
only have my usual petticoat; but then,
to make amends for that, I will put on
my gold flowered manteau and my diamond
stomacher, which is far from being
the most ordinary one in the world."
They sent for the best tire-woman they
could get to make up their head-dresses,
and they had their patches from the very
best maker.

Cinderella was likewise called up to
them to be consulted in all these matters,
for she had excellent notions and advised
them always for the best; nay, and
offered her service to dress their heads,
which they were very willing she should
do. As she was doing this, they said to
her, "Cinderella, would you not be glad
to go to the ball?"

"Ah!" said she, "you only jeer at me;
it is not for such as I am to go thither."

"Thou art in the right of it," replied
they; "it would make the people laugh
to see a cinder-wench at a ball."

Any one but Cinderella would have
dressed their heads awry, but she was
very good, and dressed them perfectly
well. They were almost two days without
eating, so much they were transported
with joy. They broke above a
dozen of laces in trying to be laced up
close, that they might have a fine slender
shape, and they were continually at their
looking-glass. At last the happy day
came. They went to court, and Cinderella
followed them with her eyes as long
as she could, and when she had lost
sight of them, she fell a-crying.

Her godmother, who saw her all in
tears, asked her what was the matter.
"I wish I could—I wish I could—"; she
was not able to speak the rest, being
interrupted by her tears and sobbing.

This godmother of hers, who was a
fairy, said to her, "Thou wishest thou
couldest go to the ball. Is it not so?"[104]

"Y—es," cried Cinderella with a
great sigh.

"Well," said her godmother, "be but
a good girl, and I will contrive that thou
shalt go."

Then she took her into her chamber
and said to her, "Run into the garden
and bring me a pumpkin." Cinderella
went immediately to gather the finest
she could get, and brought it to her godmother,
not being able to imagine how
this pumpkin could make her go to the
ball. Her godmother scooped out all
the inside of it, having left nothing but
the rind; which done, she struck it with
her wand, and the pumpkin was instantly
turned into a fine coach, gilded all over
with gold.

She then went to look into her mouse-trap,
where she found six mice, all alive,
and ordered Cinderella to lift up a little
the trap-door. Then she gave each
mouse, as it went out, a little tap with
her wand, and the mouse was that
moment turned into a fair horse. All
together the mice made a very fine set of
six horses of a beautiful mouse-colored
dapple-gray. Being at a loss for a
coachman, "I will go and see," said
Cinderella, "if there be never a rat in
the rat-trap, that we may make a coachman
of him."

"Thou art in the right," replied her
godmother; "go and look."

Cinderella brought the trap to her, and
in it there were three huge rats. The
fairy made choice of one of the three,
which had the largest beard, and, having
touched him with her wand, he was
turned into a fat, jolly coachman, who
had the smartest whiskers that eyes ever
beheld.

After that her godmother said to her,
"Go again into the garden and you
will find six lizards behind the watering
pot; bring them to me." She had no
sooner done so, than the fairy turned
them into six footmen, who skipped up
immediately behind the coach, with their
liveries all bedecked with gold and silver,
and clung as close behind each other as if
they had done nothing else their whole
lives. The fairy then said to Cinderella,
"Well, you see here an equipage fit to
go to the ball with. Are you not pleased
with it?"

"Oh, yes," cried she, "but must I go
thither as I am, in these filthy rags?"
Her godmother only just touched her
with her wand, and at the same instant
her clothes were turned into cloth of
gold and silver, all beset with jewels.
This done, she gave her a pair of glass
slippers, the prettiest in the whole world.

Being thus decked out, she got up into
her coach; but her godmother, above all
things, commanded her not to stay till
after midnight, telling her that if she
stayed at the ball one moment longer,
her coach would be a pumpkin again,
her horses mice, her coachman a rat,
her footmen lizards, and her clothes just
as they were before.

She promised her godmother she would
not fail of leaving the ball before midnight;
and then away she drives, scarce
able to contain herself for joy. The
king's son, who was told that a great
princess, whom nobody knew, was come,
ran out to receive her. He gave her his
hand as she alighted from the coach,
and led her into the hall among all the
company. There was immediately a
profound silence. They left off dancing,
and the violins ceased to play, so attentive
was every one to contemplate the singular
beauties of this unknown new-comer.
Nothing was then heard but a confused[105]
noise of, "Ha! how handsome she is!
Ha! how handsome she is!" The king
himself, old as he was, could not help
ogling her and telling the queen softly
that it was a long time since he had seen
so beautiful and lovely a creature. All
the ladies were busied in considering her
clothes and head-dress, that they might
have some made next day after the same
pattern, provided they could meet with
such fine materials and as able hands to
make them.

The king's son conducted her to the
most honorable seat and afterwards took
her out to dance with him. She danced
so very gracefully that they all more and
more admired her. A fine collation was
served up, whereof the young prince ate
not a morsel, so intently was he busied
in gazing on her. She went and sat down
by her sisters, showing them a thousand
civilities, giving them part of the oranges
and citrons which the prince had presented
her with; which very much surprised
them, for they did not know
her. While Cinderella was thus amusing
her sisters, she heard the clock strike
eleven and three quarters, whereupon
she immediately made a courtesy to the
company and hasted away as fast as she
could.

Being got home, she ran to seek out
her godmother; and having thanked her,
she said she could not but heartily wish
she might go next day to the ball, because
the king's son had desired her.
As she was eagerly telling her godmother
whatever had passed at the ball, her two
sisters knocked at the door, which Cinderella
ran and opened. "How long you
have stayed!" cried she, gaping, rubbing
her eyes, and stretching herself as if she
had been just awakened out of her sleep;
she had not, however, any manner of
inclination to sleep since they went from
home.

"If thou hadst been at the ball," said
one of her sisters, "thou wouldest not
have been tired with it. There came
thither the finest princess, the most
beautiful ever seen with mortal eyes.
She showed us a thousand civilities and
gave us oranges and citrons." Cinderella
seemed very indifferent in the matter;
indeed, she asked them the name of the
princess, but they told her they did not
know it and that the king's son was very
uneasy on her account and would give
all the world to know who she was.

At this Cinderella, smiling, replied,
"She must then be very beautiful indeed!
How happy have you been! Could not
I see her? Ah! dear Miss Charlotte, do
lend me your yellow suit of clothes,
which you wear every day."

"Ay, to be sure," cried Miss Charlotte,
"lend my clothes to such a dirty
cinder-wench as thou art! Who's the
fool then?" Cinderella indeed expected
some such answer and was very glad of
the refusal, for she would have been sadly
put to it if her sister had lent her what
she asked for jestingly.

The next day the two sisters were at
the ball, and so was Cinderella, but
dressed more magnificently than before.
The king's son was always by her side
and never ceased his compliments and
amorous speeches to her; to whom all
this was so far from being tiresome that
she quite forgot what her godmother had
recommended to her, so that she at last
counted the clock striking twelve when
she took it to be no more than eleven.
She then rose up and fled as nimble as a
deer. The prince followed, but could
not overtake her. She left behind one
of her glass slippers, which the prince[106]
took up most carefully. She got home,
but quite out of breath, without coach
or footmen, and in her old cinder clothes,
having nothing left of all her finery but
one of the little slippers, fellow to that
she dropped. The guards at the palace
gate were asked if they had not seen a
princess go out. They said they had
seen nobody go out but a young girl
very meanly dressed, who had more the
air of a poor country wench than a
gentlewoman.

When the two sisters returned from
the ball, Cinderella asked them if they
had been well diverted and if the fine
lady had been there. They told her yes,
but that she hurried away immediately
when it struck twelve and with so much
haste that she dropped one of her little
glass slippers, the prettiest in the world,
which the king's son had taken up; that
he had done nothing but look at her all
the time of the ball, and that most certainly
he was very much in love with
the beautiful person who owned the
little glass slipper.

What they said was very true, for a
few days after, the king's son caused to
be proclaimed by sound of trumpets that
he would marry her whose foot this
slipper would just fit. They whom he
employed began to try it on upon the
princesses, then the duchesses, and all the
court, but in vain. It was brought to the
two sisters, who did all they possibly
could to thrust their foot into the slipper,
but they could not effect it. Cinderella,
who saw all this and knew her slipper,
said to them, laughing, "Let me see if
it will not fit me!"

Her sisters burst out laughing and
began to banter her. The gentleman
who was sent to try the slipper looked
earnestly at Cinderella, and finding her
very handsome, said it was but just that
she should try, and that he had orders
to let every one make trial. He obliged
Cinderella to sit down, and putting the
slipper to her foot, he found it went in
very easily and fitted her as if it had
been made of wax. The astonishment
her two sisters were in was excessively
great, but still abundantly greater when
Cinderella pulled out of her pocket the
other slipper and put it on her foot.
Thereupon in came her godmother, who
having touched, with her wand, Cinderella's
clothes, made them richer and more
magnificent than any of those she had
before.

And now her two sisters found her to
be that fine beautiful lady whom they
had seen at the ball. They threw themselves
at her feet to beg pardon for all
the ill treatment they had made her
undergo. Cinderella took them up, and
as she embraced them, cried that she
forgave them with all her heart and
desired them always to love her. She
was conducted to the young prince,
dressed as she was. He thought her
more charming than ever, and a few
days after, married her. Cinderella, who
was no less good than beautiful, gave her
two sisters lodgings in the palace, and
that very same day matched them with
two great lords of the court.

The hero of the next story is often known as
Drakesbill, which easily becomes Bill
Drake. The version that follows is a translation
from the French of Charles Marelles
as given by Lang in his Red Fairy Book. It
has a raciness not in those softened versions
in which one friend gets into a pocket,
another under a wing, and so on. The
persistent energy of the little hero, his[107]
resourcefulness in difficulty, his loyal
friends, the unexpected honor that comes
as recognition of his success, the humor
that pervades every character and incident,
make this one of the most delightful of
children's stories.

DRAKESTAIL

Drakestail was very little, that is why
he was called Drakestail; but tiny as
he was he had brains, and he knew what
he was about, for having begun with
nothing he ended by amassing a hundred
crowns. Now the king of the country,
who was very extravagant and never
kept any money, having heard that
Drakestail had some, went one day in
his own person to borrow his hoard,
and, my word, in those days Drakestail
was not a little proud of having lent
money to the king. But after the first
and second year, seeing that he never
even dreamed of paying the interest, he
became uneasy, so much so that at last
he resolved to go and see his majesty
himself, and get repaid. So one fine
morning Drakestail, very spruce and
fresh, takes the road, singing: "Quack,
quack, quack, when shall I get my money
back?"

He had not gone far when he met friend
Fox, on his rounds that way.

"Good-morning, neighbor," says the
friend; "where are you off to so early?"

"I am going to the king for what he
owes me."

"Oh! take me with thee!"

Drakestail said to himself: "One can't
have too many friends." Aloud says he,
"I will, but going on all fours you will
soon be tired. Make yourself quite
small, get into my throat—go into my
gizzard, and I will carry you."

"Happy thought!" says friend Fox.

He takes bag and baggage, and, presto!
is gone like a letter into the post.

And Drakestail is off again, all spruce
and fresh, still singing: "Quack, quack,
quack, when shall I have my money
back?"

He had not gone far when he met his
lady friend, Ladder, leaning on her wall.

Drakestail said to himself: "One can't
have too many friends." Aloud says he:
"I will, but then with your wooden legs
you will soon be tired. Make yourself
quite small, get into my throat—go
into my gizzard, and I will carry you."

Drakestail said to himself: "One can't
have too many friends." Aloud says he:
"I will, but you who sleep while you walk
will soon get tired. Make yourself quite
small, get into my throat—go into my
gizzard, and I will carry you."

"Ah! happy thought!" says my friend
River.

She takes bag and baggage, and glou,
glou, glou she takes her place between
friend Fox and my friend Ladder.[108]

And "Quack, quack, quack," Drakestail
is off again singing.

A little further on he meets comrade
Wasp's-nest, maneuvering his wasps.

"Well, good-morning, friend Drakestail,"
said comrade Wasp's-nest, "where
are we bound for, so spruce and fresh?"

"I am going to the king for what he
owes me."

"Oh! take me with thee!"

Drakestail said to himself, "One can't
have too many friends." Aloud says he:
"I will, but then with your battalion to
drag along, you will soon be tired. Make
yourself quite small, go into my throat—get
into my gizzard, and I will carry
you."

"By Jove! that's a good idea!" says
comrade Wasp's-nest.

And left file! he takes the same road
to join the others with all his party.
There was not much room, but by closing
up a bit they managed. And Drakestail
is off again singing.

He arrived thus at the capital, and
threaded his way straight up the High
Street, still running and singing, "Quack,
quack, quack, when shall I get my money
back?" to the great astonishment of the
good folks, till he came to the king's
palace.

He strikes with the knocker: "Toc!
toc!"

"Who is there?" asks the porter,
putting his head out of the wicket.

"'Tis I, Drakestail. I wish to speak
to the king."

"Speak to the king! That's easily
said. The king is dining, and will not
be disturbed."

"Tell him that it is I, and I have come
he well knows why."

The porter shuts his wicket and goes
up to say it to the king, who was just
sitting down to dinner with a napkin
round his neck, and all his ministers.

"Good, good!" said the king, laughing.
"I know what it is! Make him come in,
and put him with the turkeys and
chickens."

The porter descends.

"Have the goodness to enter."

"Good!" says Drakestail to himself,
"I shall now see how they eat at court."

"Ah! so that's it," says he. "Wait!
I will compel you to receive me. Quack,
quack, quack, when shall I get my money
back?" But turkeys and chickens are
creatures who don't like people that are
not as themselves. When they saw the
new-comer and how he was made, and
when they heard him crying too, they
began to look black at him.

"What is it? What does he want?"

Finally they rushed at him all together,
to overwhelm him with pecks.

"I am lost!" said Drakestail to himself,
when by good luck he remembers
his comrade friend Fox, and he cries:

"Reynard, Reynard, come out of your earth,Or Drakestail's life is of little worth."

Then friend Fox, who was only waiting
for these words, hastens out, throws
himself on the wicked fowls, and quick!
quack! he tears them to pieces; so much
so that at the end of five minutes there
was not one left alive. And Drakestail,
quite content, began to sing again,
"Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get
my money back?"

When the king, who was still at table,
heard this refrain, and the poultry-[109]woman
came to tell him what had been
going on in the yard, he was terribly
annoyed.

He ordered them to throw this tail of
a drake into the well, to make an end of
him.

And it was done as he commanded.
Drakestail was in despair of getting himself
out of such a deep hole, when he
remembered his lady friend Ladder.

"Ladder, Ladder, come out of thy hold,Or Drakestail's days will soon be told."

My friend Ladder, who was only waiting
for these words, hastens out, leans
her two arms on the edge of the well;
then Drakestail climbs nimbly on her
back, and hop! he is in the yard, where
he begins to sing louder than ever.

When the king, who was still at table
and laughing at the good trick he had
played his creditor, heard him again
reclaiming his money, he became livid
with rage.

He commanded that the furnace should
be heated, and this tail of a drake thrown
into it, because he must be a sorcerer.

The furnace was soon hot, but this
time Drakestail was not so afraid; he
counted on his sweetheart, my friend
River.

"River, River, outward flow,Or to death Drakestail must go."

My friend River hastens out, and errouf!
throws herself into the furnace,
which she floods, with all the people who
had lighted it; after which she flowed
growling into the hall of the palace to
the height of more than four feet.

The king was still at table, and thought
himself quite sure of his game; but when
he heard Drakestail singing again, and
when they told him all that had passed,
he became furious and got up from the
table brandishing his fists.

"At last," said the poor chap, going up
the great stairs, "they have decided to
receive me."

Imagine his terror when on entering
he sees the king as red as a turkey cock,
and all his ministers attending him standing
sword in hand. He thought this
time it was all up with him. Happily he
remembered that there was still one
remaining friend, and he cried with dying
accents:

"Bs, bs, bayonet them!" The brave
Wasp's-nest rushes out with all his
wasps. They threw themselves on the
infuriated king and his ministers, and
stung them so fiercely in the face that
they lost their heads, and not knowing
where to hide themselves they all jumped
pell-mell from the window and broke their
necks on the pavement.

Behold Drakestail much astonished,
all alone in the big saloon and master of
the field. He could not get over it.

Nevertheless, he remembered shortly
what he had come for to the palace, and
improving the occasion, he set to work to
hunt for his dear money. But in vain
he rummaged in all the drawers; he found
nothing; all had been spent.

And ferreting thus from room to room
he came at last to the one with the throne[110]
in it, and feeling fatigued, he sat himself
down on it to think over his adventure.
In the meanwhile the people had found
their king and his ministers with their
feet in the air on the pavement, and they
had gone into the palace to know how it
had occurred. On entering the throne-room,
when the crowd saw that there was
already someone on the royal seat, they
broke out in cries of surprise and joy:

"The King is dead, long live the King!Heaven has sent us down this thing."

Drakestail, who was no longer surprised
at anything, received the acclamations
of the people as if he had never done
anything else all his life.

A few of them certainly murmured
that a Drakestail would make a fine
king; those who knew him replied that a
knowing Drakestail was a more worthy
king than a spendthrift like him who was
lying on the pavement. In short, they
ran and took the crown off the head of the
deceased, and placed it on that of Drakestail,
whom it fitted like wax.

Thus he became king.

"And now," said he after the ceremony,
"ladies and gentlemen, let's go to
supper. I am so hungry!"

The story of "Beauty and the Beast," while
very old in its ruder forms, is known to us in
a fine version which comes from the middle
of the eighteenth century. Madame de
Villeneuve, a French writer of some note
and a follower of Perrault in the field of the
fairy tale, published in 1740 a collection of
stories (Contes Marins) supposed to be
told by an old woman during a voyage to
St. Domingo. Among these was "Beauty
and the Beast" in a long-winded style
extending to more than 250 pages. In 1757,
a greatly abridged form of this version
was published by Madame de Beaumont,
who was then living in England and
who wrote many spirited tales designed for
children. Her stories are full of the didactic
element, and "Beauty and the Beast"
is no exception to the rule. These "edifying
commonplaces," however, are so sound
and fit into the story so naturally that the
reader does not suffer from their presence.
The artificial character of the story is easily
felt in contrast to the natural qualities of
a folk version. The plot has all the perfection
of a finished piece of literary art,
and for this quality especially Madame de
Beaumont's abridgement has always been
heartily and rightly admired.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Once upon a time, in a far-off country,
there lived a merchant who had been so
fortunate in all his undertakings that he
was enormously rich. As he had, however,
six sons and six daughters, he found
that his money was not too much to let
them have everything they fancied, as
they were accustomed to do.

But one day a most unexpected misfortune
befell them. Their house caught
fire and was speedily burned to the
ground, with all the splendid furniture,
the books, pictures, gold, silver, and
precious goods it contained; and this was
only the beginning of their troubles.
Their father, who had until this moment
prospered in all ways, suddenly lost every
ship he had upon the sea, either by dint
of pirates, shipwreck, or fire. Then he
heard that his clerks in distant countries,
whom he had trusted entirely, had proved
unfaithful, and at last from great wealth
he fell into direst poverty.

All that he had left was a little house in
a desolate place at least a hundred leagues
from the town in which he had lived, and
to this he was forced to retreat with his[111]
children, who were in despair at the idea
of leading such a different life. Indeed,
the daughters at first hoped that their
friends, who had been so numerous while
they were rich, would insist on their
staying in their houses now they no longer
possessed one. But they soon found that
they were left alone, and that their
former friends even attributed their misfortunes
to their own extravagance, and
showed no intention of offering them any
help. So nothing was left for them but
to take their departure to the cottage,
which stood in the midst of a dark forest,
and seemed to be the most dismal place
upon the face of the earth.

As they were too poor to have any servants,
the girls had to work hard, like
peasants, and the sons, for their part,
cultivated the fields to earn their living.
Roughly clothed, and living in the simplest
way, the girls regretted unceasingly
the luxuries and amusements of their
former life; only the youngest tried to be
brave and cheerful. She had been as sad
as anyone when the misfortune first overtook
her father, but, soon recovering her
natural gayety, she set to work to make
the best of things, to amuse her father
and brothers as well as she could, and to
try to persuade her sisters to join her in
dancing and singing. But they would
do nothing of the sort, and because she
was not as doleful as themselves they
declared that this miserable life was all
she was fit for. But she was really far
prettier and cleverer than they were;
indeed, she was so lovely that she was
always called Beauty. After two years,
when they were all beginning to get used
to their new life, something happened to
disturb their tranquillity. Their father
received the news that one of his ships,
which he had believed to be lost, had
come safely into port with a rich cargo.

All the sons and daughters at once
thought that their poverty was at an end
and wanted to set out directly for the
town, but their father, who was more
prudent, begged them to wait a little,
and though it was harvest-time and he
could ill be spared, determined to go himself
first to make inquiries. Only the
youngest daughter had any doubt but
that they would soon be as rich as they
were before, or at least rich enough to
live comfortably in some town where
they would find amusement and gay companions
once more. So they all loaded
their father with commissions for jewels
and dresses which it would have taken a
fortune to buy; only Beauty, feeling sure
that it was of no use, did not ask for anything.
Her father, noticing her silence,
said: "And what shall I bring for you,
Beauty?"

"The only thing I wish for is to see
you come home safely," she answered.

But this reply vexed her sisters, who
fancied she was blaming them for having
asked for such costly things. Her
father was pleased, but as he thought
that at her age she certainly ought to
like pretty presents, he told her to choose
something.

"Well, dear father," said she, "as you
insist upon it, I beg that you will bring
me a rose. I have not seen one since
we came here, and I love them so much."

So the merchant set out and reached
the town as quickly as possible, but only
to find that his former companions,
believing him to be dead, had divided
between them the goods which the ship
had brought; and after six months of
trouble and expense he found himself as
poor as when he started, having been[112]
able to recover only just enough to pay
the cost of the journey. To make matters
worse, he was obliged to leave the
town in terrible weather, so that by the
time he was within a few leagues of his
home he was almost exhausted with cold
and fatigue. Though he knew it would
take some hours to get through the forest,
he was so anxious to be at his journey's
end that he resolved to go on; but night
overtook him, and the deep snow and
bitter frost made it impossible for his
horse to carry him any further. Not a
house was to be seen. The only shelter
he could get was the hollow trunk of a
great tree, and there he crouched all the
night, which seemed to him the longest
he had ever known. In spite of his
weariness the howling of the wolves
kept him awake, and even when at last
the day broke he was not much better
off, for the falling snow had covered up
every path and he did not know which
way to turn.

At length he made out some sort of
track, and though at the beginning it
was so rough and slippery that he fell
down more than once, it presently
became easier and led him into an avenue
of trees which ended in a splendid castle.
It seemed to the merchant very strange
that no snow had fallen in the avenue,
which was entirely composed of orange-trees,
covered with flowers and fruit.
When he reached the first court of the
castle he saw before him a flight of agate
steps, and went up them and passed
through several splendidly furnished
rooms. The pleasant warmth of the air
revived him and he felt very hungry;
but there seemed to be nobody in all
this vast and splendid palace whom he
could ask to give him something to eat.
Deep silence reigned everywhere, and at
last, tired of roaming through empty
rooms and galleries, he stopped in a room
smaller than the rest, where a clear fire
was burning and a couch was drawn up
cozily, close to it. Thinking that this
must be prepared for some one who was
expected, he sat down to wait till he
should come and very soon fell into a
sweet sleep.

When his extreme hunger wakened
him after several hours he was still alone,
but a little table, upon which was a
good dinner, had been drawn up close
to him, and as he had eaten nothing for
twenty-four hours he lost no time in
beginning his meal, hoping that he might
soon have an opportunity of thanking
his considerate entertainer, whoever it
might be. But no one appeared, and
even after another long sleep, from which
he awoke completely refreshed, there was
no sign of anybody, though a fresh meal
of dainty cakes and fruit was prepared
upon a little table at his elbow. Being
naturally timid, the silence began to
terrify him, and he resolved to search
once more through all the rooms; but
it was of no use. Not even a servant
was to be seen; there was no sign of
life in the palace! He began to wonder
what he should do, and to amuse himself
by pretending that all the treasures
he saw were his own, and considering
how he would divide them among his
children. Then he went down into the
garden, and though it was winter everywhere
else, here the sun shone, and the
birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and
the air was soft and sweet. The merchant,
in ecstasies with all he saw and
heard, said to himself:

"All this must be meant for me. I
will go this minute and bring my children
to share all these delights."[113]

In spite of being so cold and weary
when he reached the castle, he had taken
his horse to the stable and fed it. Now
he thought he would saddle it for his
homeward journey, and he turned down
the path which led to the stable. This
path had a hedge of roses on each side
of it, and the merchant thought he had
never seen or smelled such exquisite
flowers. They reminded him of his promise
to Beauty, and he stopped and had
just gathered one to take to her when
he was startled by a strange noise behind
him. Turning round he saw a frightful
beast, which seemed to be very angry
and said in a terrible voice: "Who told
you that you might gather my roses?
Was it not enough that I allowed you
to be in my palace and was kind to you?
This is the way you show your gratitude,
by stealing my flowers! But your insolence
shall not go unpunished."

The merchant, terrified by these furious
words, dropped the fatal rose, and
throwing himself on his knees cried:
"Pardon me, noble sir. I am truly
grateful to you for your hospitality,
which was so magnificent that I could
not imagine that you would be offended
by my taking such a little thing as a
rose." But the beast's anger was not
lessened by this speech.

"You are very ready with excuses and
flattery," he cried; "but that will not
save you from the death you deserve."

"Alas!" thought the merchant, "if my
daughter Beauty could only know what
danger her rose has brought me into!"

And in despair be began to tell the
beast all his misfortunes and the reason
of his journey, not forgetting to mention
Beauty's request.

"A king's ransom would hardly have
procured all that my other daughters
asked," he said, "but I thought that I
might at least take Beauty her rose.
I beg you to forgive me, for you see
I meant no harm."

The beast considered for a moment,
and then he said in a less furious tone:

"I will forgive you on one condition—that
is, that you will give me one of your
daughters."

"Ah!" cried the merchant, "if I were
cruel enough to buy my own life at the
expense of one of my children's, what
excuse could I invent to bring her here?"

"No excuse would be necessary,"
answered the beast. "If she comes at
all she must come willingly. On no
other condition will I have her. See
if any one of them is courageous enough
and loves you well enough to come and
save your life. You seem to be an
honest man, so I will trust you to go
home. I give you a month to see if
either of your daughters will come back
with you and stay here, to let you go
free. If neither of them is willing you
must come alone, after bidding them
good-by forever, for then you will
belong to me. And do not imagine that
you can hide from me, for if you fail
to keep your word I will come and
fetch you!" added the beast grimly.

The merchant accepted this proposal,
though he did not really think any of
his daughters would be persuaded to
come. He promised to return at the
time appointed, and then, anxious to
escape from the presence of the beast,
he asked permission to set off at once.
But the beast answered that he could
not go until the next day.

"Then you will find a horse ready for
you," he said. "Now go and eat your
supper and await my orders."

The poor merchant, more dead than[114]
alive, went back to his room, where the
most delicious supper was already served
on the little table which was drawn up
before a blazing fire. But he was too
terrified to eat, and only tasted a few of
the dishes, for fear the beast should be
angry if he did not obey his orders.
When he had finished he heard a great
noise in the next room, which he knew
meant that the beast was coming. As
he could do nothing to escape his visit,
the only thing that remained was to seem
as little afraid as possible; so when the
beast appeared and asked roughly if he
had supped well, the merchant answered
humbly that he had, thanks to his host's
kindness. Then the beast warned him
to remember their agreement and to
prepare his daughter exactly for what she
had to expect.

"Do not get up to-morrow," he added,
"until you see the sun and hear a golden
bell ring. Then you will find your
breakfast waiting for you here, and the
horse you are to ride will be ready in
the court-yard. He will also bring you
back again when you come with your
daughter a month hence. Farewell.
Take a rose to Beauty, and remember
your promise."

The merchant was only too glad when
the beast went away, and though he
could not sleep for sadness, he lay down
until the sun rose. Then, after a hasty
breakfast, he went to gather Beauty's
rose and mounted his horse, which carried
him off so swiftly that in an instant
he had lost sight of the palace, and he
was still wrapped in gloomy thoughts
when it stopped before the door of the
cottage.

His sons and daughters, who had been
very uneasy at his long absence, rushed
to meet him, eager to know the result
of his journey, which, seeing him mounted
upon a splendid horse and wrapped in a
rich mantle, they supposed to be favorable.
But he hid the truth from them at
first, only saying sadly to Beauty as he
gave her the rose:

"Here is what you asked me to bring
you. You little know what it has cost."

But this excited their curiosity so
greatly that presently he told them his
adventures from beginning to end, and
then they were all very unhappy. The
girls lamented loudly over their lost
hopes, and the sons declared that their
father should not return to this terrible
castle, and began to make plans for killing
the beast if it should come to fetch him.
But he reminded them that he had promised
to go back. Then the girls were very
angry with Beauty and said it was all
her fault, and that if she had asked for
something sensible this would never have
happened, and complained bitterly that
they should have to suffer for her folly.

Poor Beauty, much distressed, said to
them:

"I have indeed caused this misfortune,
but I assure you I did it innocently.
Who could have guessed that to ask for
a rose in the middle of summer would
cause so much misery? But as I did the
mischief it is only just that I should
suffer for it. I will therefore go back
with my father to keep his promise."

At first nobody would hear of this
arrangement, and her father and brothers,
who loved her dearly, declared that
nothing should make them let her go;
but Beauty was firm. As the time drew
near she divided all her little possessions
between her sisters and said good-by to
everything she loved, and when the fatal
day came she encouraged and cheered
her father as they mounted together the[115]
horse which had brought him back. It
seemed to fly rather than gallop, but so
smoothly that Beauty was not frightened;
indeed, she would have enjoyed the
journey if she had not feared what might
happen to her at the end of it. Her
father still tried to persuade her to go
back, but in vain. While they were
talking the night fell, and then, to their
surprise, wonderful colored lights began
to shine in all directions, and splendid
fireworks blazed out before them. All
the forest was illuminated by them, and
even felt pleasantly warm, though it had
been bitterly cold before. This lasted
until they reached the avenue of orange-trees,
where were statues holding flaming
torches, and when they got nearer to the
palace they saw that it was illuminated
from the roof to the ground, and music
sounded softly from the court-yard. "The
beast must be very hungry," said Beauty,
trying to laugh, "if he makes all this rejoicing
over the arrival of his prey."

But in spite of her anxiety she could
not help admiring all the wonderful
things she saw.

The horse stopped at the foot of the
flight of steps leading to the terrace, and
when they had dismounted her father
led her to the little room he had been
in before, where they found a splendid
fire burning and the table daintily spread
with a delicious supper.

The merchant knew that this was
meant for them, and Beauty, who was
rather less frightened now that she had
passed through so many rooms and seen
nothing of the beast, was quite willing
to begin, for her long ride had made her
very hungry. But they had hardly finished
their meal when the noise of the
beast's footsteps was heard approaching,
and Beauty clung to her father in terror,
which became all the greater when she
saw how frightened he was. But when
the beast really appeared, though she
trembled at the sight of him, she made a
great effort to hide her horror and saluted
him respectfully.

This evidently pleased the beast.
After looking at her he said, in a tone
that might have struck terror into the
boldest heart, though he did not seem
to be angry:

"Good-evening, old man. Good-evening,
Beauty."

The merchant was too terrified to
reply, but Beauty answered sweetly:

"Good-evening, beast."

"Have you come willingly?" asked the
beast. "Will you be content to stay
here when your father goes away?"

Beauty answered bravely that she was
quite prepared to stay.

"I am pleased with you," said the
beast. "As you have come of your own
accord, you may stay. As for you, old
man," he added, turning to the merchant,
"at sunrise to-morrow you will take your
departure. When the bell rings get up
quickly and eat your breakfast, and you
will find the same horse waiting to take
you home; but remember that you must
never expect to see my palace again."

Then turning to Beauty he said:

"Take your father into the next room
and help him to choose everything you
think your brothers and sisters would
like to have. You will find two traveling-trunks
there; fill them as full as you can.
It is only just that you should send them
something very precious as a remembrance
of yourself."

Then he went away after saying,
"Good-by, Beauty; good-by, old man";
and though Beauty was beginning to
think with great dismay of her father's[116]
departure, she was afraid to disobey the
beast's orders, and they went into the
next room, which had shelves and cupboards
all round it. They were greatly
surprised at the riches it contained.
There were splendid dresses fit for a
queen, with all the ornaments that were
to be worn with them; and when Beauty
opened the cupboards she was quite
dazzled by the gorgeous jewels that lay
in heaps upon every shelf. After choosing
a vast quantity, which she divided
between her sisters—for she made a heap
of the wonderful dresses for each of them—she
opened the last chest, which was
full of gold.

"I think, father," she said, "that as
the gold will be more useful to you we
had better take out the other things again
and fill the trunks with it." So they did
this; but the more they put in the more
room there seemed to be, and at last they
put back all the jewels and dresses they
had taken out, and Beauty even added as
many more of the jewels as she could
carry at once; and then the trunks were
not too full, but they were so heavy that
an elephant could not have carried them!

"The beast was mocking us," cried the
merchant. "He must have pretended to
give us all these things, knowing that I
could not carry them away."

"Let us wait and see," answered Beauty.
"I cannot believe that he meant to deceive
us. All we can do is to fasten them up and
leave them ready."

So they did this and returned to the
little room, where, to their astonishment,
they found breakfast ready. The merchant
ate his with a good appetite, as the
beast's generosity made him believe that
he might perhaps venture to come back
soon and see Beauty. But she felt sure
that her father was leaving her forever,
so she was very sad when the bell rang
sharply for the second time and warned
them that the time had come for them to
part. They went down into the court-yard,
where two horses were waiting, one
loaded with the two trunks, the other for
him to ride. They were pawing the
ground in their impatience to start, and,
the merchant was forced to bid Beauty
a hasty farewell; and as soon as he was
mounted he went off at such a pace that
she lost sight of him in an instant.

Then Beauty began to cry and wandered
back to her own room. But she
soon found that she was very sleepy, and
as she had nothing better to do she lay
down and instantly fell asleep. And
then she dreamed that she was walking
by a brook bordered with trees and
lamenting her sad fate, when a young
prince, handsomer than anyone she had
ever seen, and with a voice that went
straight to her heart, came and said to
her: "Ah, Beauty! you are not so unfortunate
as you suppose. Here you will
be rewarded for all you have suffered
elsewhere. Your every wish shall be
gratified. Only try to find me out, no
matter how I may be disguised, as I love
you dearly, and in making me happy you
will find your own happiness. Be as
true-hearted as you are beautiful, and
we shall have nothing left to wish for."

"What can I do, prince, to make you
happy?" said Beauty.

"Only be grateful," he answered, "and
do not trust too much to your eyes. And
above all, do not desert me until you have
saved me from my cruel misery."

After this she thought she found herself
in a room with a stately and beautiful
lady, who said to her:

"Dear Beauty, try not to regret all
you have left behind you, for you are[117]
destined to a better fate. Only do not
let yourself be deceived by appearances."

Beauty found her dreams so interesting
that she was in no hurry to awake, but
presently the clock roused her by calling
her name softly twelve times, and then
she got up and found her dressing-table
set out with everything she could possibly
want; and when her toilet was finished she
found dinner was waiting in the room next
to hers. But dinner does not take very
long when you are all by yourself, and
very soon she sat down cozily in the
corner of a sofa and began to think
about the charming prince she had seen
in her dream.

"He said I could make him happy,"
said Beauty to herself. "It seems, then,
that this horrible beast keeps him a
prisoner. How can I set him free? I
wonder why they both told me not to
trust to appearances. I don't understand
it. But after all it is only a dream,
so why should I trouble myself about it?
I had better go and find something to
do to amuse myself."

So she got up and began to explore
some of the many rooms of the palace.

The first she entered was lined with
mirrors, and Beauty saw herself reflected
on every side, and thought she had never
seen such a charming room. Then a
bracelet which was hanging from a
chandelier caught her eye, and on taking
it down she was greatly surprised to find
that it held a portrait of her unknown
admirer, just as she had seen him in her
dream. With great delight she slipped
the bracelet on her arm and went on into
a gallery of pictures, where she soon
found a portrait of the same handsome
prince, as large as life and so well painted
that as she studied it he seemed to smile
kindly at her.

Tearing herself away from the portrait
at last, she passed through into a
room which contained every musical instrument
under the sun, and here she
amused herself for a long while in trying
some of them and singing until she was
tired. The next room was a library,
and she saw everything she had ever
wanted to read, as well as everything she
had read, and it seemed to her that a
whole lifetime would not be enough even
to read the names of the books, there
were so many. By this time it was growing
dusk, and wax candles in diamond
and ruby candlesticks were beginning to
light themselves in every room.

Beauty found her supper served just
at the time she preferred to have it, but
she did not see anyone or hear a sound,
and though her father had warned her
that she would be alone, she began to find
it rather dull.

But presently she heard the beast
coming, and wondered tremblingly if he
meant to eat her up now.

However, as he did not seem at all
ferocious, and only said gruffly, "Good-evening,
Beauty," she answered cheerfully
and managed to conceal her terror.
Then the beast asked her how she had
been amusing herself, and she told him
all the rooms she had seen.

Then he asked if she thought she could
be happy in his palace, and Beauty
answered that everything was so beautiful
that she would be very hard to please
if she could not be happy. And after
about an hour's talk Beauty began to
think that the beast was not nearly so
terrible as she had supposed at first.
Then he got up to leave her and said in
his gruff voice:

"Oh! what shall I say?" cried Beauty,
for she was afraid to make the beast
angry by refusing.

"Say 'yes' or 'no' without fear," he
replied.

"Oh! no, beast," said Beauty hastily.

"Since you will not, good-night,
Beauty," he said. And she answered,
"Good-night, beast," very glad to find
that her refusal had not provoked him.
And after he was gone she was very soon
in bed and asleep and dreaming of her
unknown prince. She thought he came
and said to her:

"Ah, Beauty! why are you so unkind
to me? I fear I am fated to be unhappy
for many a long day still."

And then her dreams changed, but the
charming prince figured in them all; and
when morning came her first thought
was to look at the portrait and see if it
was really like him, and she found that
it certainly was.

This morning she decided to amuse
herself in the garden, for the sun shone
and all the fountains were playing; but
she was astonished to find that every
place was familiar to her, and presently
she came to the brook where the myrtle
trees were growing where she had first
met the prince in her dream, and that
made her think more than ever that he
must be kept a prisoner by the beast.
When she was tired she went back to
the palace, and found a new room full
of materials for every kind of work—ribbons
to make into bows and silks to
work into flowers. Then there was an
aviary full of rare birds, which were so
tame that they flew to Beauty as soon as
they saw her and perched upon her
shoulders and her head.

"Pretty little creatures," she said,
"how I wish that your cage was nearer
to my room, that I might often hear you
sing!"

So saying she opened a door and found
to her delight that it led into her own
room, though she had thought it was
quite the other side of the palace.

There were more birds in a room further
on, parrots and cockatoos that could
talk, and they greeted Beauty by name.
Indeed, she found them so entertaining
that she took one or two back to her
room, and they talked to her while she
was at supper; after which the beast
paid her his usual visit and asked the
same questions as before, and then with a
gruff "good-night" he took his departure,
and Beauty went to bed to dream
of her mysterious prince. The days
passed swiftly in different amusements,
and after a while Beauty found out
another strange thing in the palace,
which often pleased her when she was
tired of being alone. There was one
room which she had not noticed particularly.
It was empty, except that under
each of the windows stood a very comfortable
chair, and the first time she had
looked out of the window it had seemed
to her that a black curtain prevented her
from seeing anything outside. But the
second time she went into the room,
happening to be tired, she sat down in
one of the chairs, and instantly the curtain
was rolled aside and a most amusing
pantomime was acted before her. There
were dances, and colored lights, and
music, and pretty dresses, and it was all
so gay that Beauty was in ecstasies.
After that she tried the other seven windows
in turn, and there was some new
and surprising entertainment to be seen
from each of them, so that Beauty never
could feel lonely any more. Every evening
after supper the beast came to see[119]
her, and always before saying good-night
asked her in his terrible voice:

"Beauty, will you marry me?"

And it seemed to Beauty, now she
understood him better, that when she
said, "No, beast," he went away quite
sad. But her happy dreams of the handsome
young prince soon made her forget
the poor beast, and the only thing that
at all disturbed her was to be constantly
told to distrust appearances, to let her
heart guide her, and not her eyes, and
many other equally perplexing things,
which, consider as she would, she could
not understand.

So everything went on for a long time,
until at last, happy as she was, Beauty
began to long for the sight of her father
and her brothers and sisters; and one
night, seeing her look very sad, the beast
asked her what was the matter. Beauty
had quite ceased to be afraid of him now
she knew that he was really gentle in
spite of his ferocious looks and his dreadful
voice. So she answered that she was
longing to see her home once more.
Upon hearing this the beast seemed sadly
distressed and cried miserably:

"Ah! Beauty, have you the heart to
desert an unhappy beast like this? What
more do you want to make you happy?
Is it because you hate me that you want
to escape?"

"No, dear beast," answered Beauty
softly, "I do not hate you, and I should
be very sorry never to see you any more,
but I long to see my father again. Only
let me go for two months, and I promise
to come back to you and stay for the
rest of my life."

The beast, who had been sighing dolefully
while she spoke, now replied:

"I cannot refuse you anything you
ask, even though it should cost me my
life. Take the four boxes you will find
in the room next to your own and fill
them with everything you wish to take
with you. But remember your promise
and come back when the two months
are over, or you may have cause to
repent it, for if you do not come in
good time you will find your faithful
beast dead. You will not need any
chariot to bring you back. Only say
good-by to all your brothers and sisters
the night before you come away, and
when you have gone to bed turn this
ring round upon your finger and say
firmly: 'I wish to go back to my palace
and see my beast again.' Good-night,
Beauty. Fear nothing, sleep peacefully,
and before long you shall see your father
once more."

As soon as Beauty was alone she
hastened to fill the boxes with all the
rare and precious things she saw about
her, and only when she was tired of
heaping things into them did they seem
to be full.

Then she went to bed, but could hardly
sleep for joy. And when at last she did
begin to dream of her beloved prince
she was grieved to see him stretched upon
a grassy bank, sad and weary and hardly
like himself.

"What is the matter?" she cried.

But he looked at her reproachfully
and said:

"How can you ask me, cruel one?
Are you not leaving me to my death
perhaps?"

"Ah, don't be so sorrowful!" cried
Beauty. "I am only going to assure
my father that I am safe and happy.
I have promised the beast faithfully
that I will come back, and he would
die of grief if I did not keep my word!"

"What would that matter to you?"[120]
said the prince. "Surely you would not
care?"

"Indeed I should be ungrateful if I
did not care for such a kind beast," cried
Beauty indignantly. "I would die to
save him from pain. I assure you it is
not his fault that he is so ugly."

Just then a strange sound woke her—someone
was speaking not very far away;
and opening her eyes she found herself
in a room she had never seen before,
which was certainly not nearly so splendid
as those she was used to in the
beast's palace. Where could she be?
She got up and dressed hastily, and
then saw that the boxes she had packed
the night before were all in the room.
While she was wondering by what magic
the beast had transported them and
herself to this strange place she suddenly
heard her father's voice, and rushed out
and greeted him joyfully. Her brothers
and sisters were all astonished at her
appearance, as they had never expected
to see her again, and there was no end
to the questions they asked her. She
had also much to hear about what had
happened to them while she was away and
of her father's journey home. But when
they heard that she had only come to
be with them for a short time, and then
must go back to the beast's palace
forever, they lamented loudly. Then
Beauty asked her father what he thought
could be the meaning of her strange
dreams, and why the prince constantly
begged her not to trust to appearances.
After much consideration he answered:

"You tell me yourself that the beast,
frightful as he is, loves you dearly and
deserves your love and gratitude for
his gentleness and kindness. I think
the prince must mean you to understand
that you ought to reward him by doing
as he wishes you to, in spite of his
ugliness."

Beauty could not help seeing that this
seemed very probable. Still, when she
thought of her dear prince who was so
handsome, she did not feel at all inclined
to marry the beast. At any rate, for
two months she need not decide, but
could enjoy herself with her sisters. But
though they were rich now and lived in
a town again and had plenty of acquaintances,
Beauty found that nothing amused
her very much; and she often thought of
the palace where she was so happy,
especially as at home she never once
dreamed of her dear prince, and she felt
quite sad without him.

Then her sisters seemed to have got
used to being without her, and even
found her rather in the way, so she
would not have been sorry when the
two months were over but for her father
and brothers, who begged her to stay
and seemed so grieved at the thought of
her departure that she had not the
courage to say good-by to them. Every
day when she got up she meant to say
it at night, and when night came she
put it off again, until at last she had a
dismal dream which helped her to make
up her mind. She thought she was
wandering in a lonely path in the palace
gardens, when she heard groans which
seemed to come from some bushes hiding
the entrance of a cave, and running
quickly to see what could be the matter,
she found the beast stretched out upon
his side, apparently dying. He reproached
her faintly with being the
cause of his distress, and at the same
moment a stately lady appeared and
said very gravely:

"Ah, Beauty! you are only just in
time to save his life. See what happens[121]
when people do not keep their promises!
If you had delayed one day more you
would have found him dead."

Beauty was so terrified by this dream
that the next morning she announced
her intention of going back at once, and
that very night she said good-by to her
father and all her brothers and sisters,
and as soon as she was in bed she turned
her ring round upon her finger and said
firmly, "I wish to go back to my palace
and see my beast again," as she had been
told to do.

Then she fell asleep instantly, and
only woke up to hear the clock saying
"Beauty, Beauty," twelve times in its
musical voice, which told her at once
that she was really in the palace once
more. Everything was just as before,
and her birds were so glad to see her;
but Beauty thought she had never known
such a long day, for she was so anxious
to see the beast again that she felt as
if supper time would never come.

But when it did come and no beast
appeared she was really frightened; so
after listening and waiting for a long
time she ran down into the garden to
search for him. Up and down the paths
and avenues ran poor Beauty, calling
him in vain, for no one answered and
not a trace of him could she find, until
at last, quite tired, she stopped for a
minute's rest and saw that she was
standing opposite the shady path she
had seen in her dream. She rushed
down it, and, sure enough, there was
the cave, and in it lay the beast—asleep,
as Beauty thought. Quite glad to have
found him, she ran up and stroked his
head, but, to her horror, he did not
move or open his eyes.

"Oh! he is dead, and it is all my
fault," said Beauty, crying bitterly.

But then, looking at him again, she
fancied he still breathed, and hastily
fetching some water from the nearest fountain,
she sprinkled it over his face, and
to her great delight he began to revive.

"Oh, beast! how you frightened me!"
she cried. "I never knew how much I
loved you until just now, when I feared
I was too late to save your life."

"Can you really love such an ugly
creature as I am?" said the beast faintly.
"Ah, Beauty! you only came just in
time. I was dying because I thought
you had forgotten your promise. But
go back now and rest. I shall see you
again by and by."

Beauty, who had half expected that
he would be angry with her, was reassured
by his gentle voice and went
back to the palace, where supper was
awaiting her; and afterward the beast
came in as usual and talked about the
time she had spent with her father, asking
if she had enjoyed herself and if they
had all been very glad to see her.

Beauty answered politely, and quite
enjoyed telling him all that had happened
to her. And when at last the
time came for him to go, and he asked,
as he had so often asked before, "Beauty,
will you marry me?" she answered softly:
"Yes, dear beast."

As she spoke a blaze of light sprang
up before the windows of the palace;
fireworks crackled and guns banged,
and across the avenue of orange trees,
in letters all made of fireflies, was written:
"Long live the prince and his bride."

Turning to ask the beast what it could
all mean, Beauty found that he had disappeared,
and in his place stood her
long-loved prince! At the same moment
the wheels of a chariot were heard upon
the terrace and two ladies entered the[122]
room. One of them Beauty recognized
as the stately lady she had seen in her
dreams; the other was also so grand and
queenly that Beauty hardly knew which
to greet first.

But the one she already knew said to
her companion:

"Well, queen, this is Beauty, who has
had the courage to rescue your son from
the terrible enchantment. They love
one another, and only your consent to
their marriage is wanting to make them
perfectly happy."

"I consent with all my heart," cried the
queen. "How can I ever thank you
enough, charming girl, for having restored
my dear son to his natural form?"

And then she tenderly embraced
Beauty and the prince, who had meanwhile
been greeting the fairy and receiving
her congratulations.

"Now," said the fairy to Beauty, "I
suppose you would like me to send for
all your brothers and sisters to dance
at your wedding?"

And so she did, and the marriage was
celebrated the very next day with the
utmost splendor, and Beauty and the
prince lived happily ever after.

Peter Asbjörnsen (1812-1885) and Jorgen
Moe (1813-1882) were the first scientific
collectors of the folk tales of Norway.
Their joint interest in folk tales began when
they were schoolboys wandering on foot
through the country and listening to peasant
stories. This interest continued after
Moe had become a theologian and Asbjörnsen
a noted scientist. The latter served
the government as an expert connected
with the survey and development of his
country's natural resources. This resulted
in taking him to all parts of the land, and
he never lost an opportunity to hear and
copy down any folk tale that he found
surviving in the more isolated districts.
In 1842-1844 appeared Norwegian Folk Tales
by Moe and Asbjörnsen; in 1845, Norwegian
Fairy Tales and Folk Legends; and
there were subsequent additions. The five
tales following are from these Norse collections.
They were first made accessible in
English in Dasent's Popular Tales from the
Norse (1858). This book with its long
introductory essay on the origin and diffusion
of popular tales constitutes a landmark
in the study of folklore. It and Dasent's
later volume, Tales from the Fjeld, are still,
perhaps, the best sources for versions of
the Norse popular tales. "Why the Bear
Is Stumpy-tailed" belongs to the class of
stories which explain how things happened
to be as they are. It is of great antiquity
and is found over most of the world. The
greatest of all modern nature fairy tales,
Kipling's Just So Stories, are of a similar
type, though told at greater length and, of
course, with infinitely greater art.

WHY THE BEAR IS STUMPY-TAILED

One day the Bear met the Fox, who
came slinking along with a string of fish
he had stolen.

"Whence did you get those?" asked
the Bear.

"Oh! my Lord Bruin, I've been out
fishing and caught them," said the Fox.

So the Bear had a mind to learn to
fish too, and bade the Fox tell him how
he was to set about it.

"Oh! it's an easy craft for you,"
answered the Fox, "and soon learnt.
You've only got to go upon the ice, and
cut a hole and stick your tail down into
it; and so you must go on holding it
there as long as you can. You're not
to mind if your tail smarts a little; that's
when the fish bite. The longer you hold
it there the more fish you'll get; and[123]
then all at once out with it, with a cross
pull sideways, and with a strong pull
too."

Yes; the Bear did as the Fox had said,
and held his tail a long, long time down
in the hole, till it was fast frozen in.
Then he pulled it out with a cross pull,
and it snapped short off. That's why
Bruin goes about with a stumpy tail
this very day.

The following is from Dasent's Popular Tales
from the Norse and has long been a favorite
with the younger children by reason of its
remarkable compactness and its strong
accumulative force. The Troll of northern
stories is the Ogre of those farther south.
The story has a closing formula which may
often have been used for other stories as
well. (For an opening verse formula see
the note on "The Story of the Three Little
Pigs," No. 151.)

THE THREE BILLY-GOATS
GRUFF

Once on a time there were three Billy-goats
who were to go up to the hillside
to make themselves fat, and the
name of all the three was "Gruff."

On the way up was a bridge over a
burn they had to cross; and under the
bridge lived a great ugly Troll, with eyes
as big as saucers and a nose as long as
a poker.

So first of all came the youngest billy-goat
Gruff to cross the bridge.

"Trip, trap; trip, trap!" went the
bridge.

"WHO'S THAT tripping over my
bridge?" roared the Troll.

"Oh! it is only I, the tiniest billy-goat
Gruff; and I'm going up to the
hill-side to make myself fat," said the
billy-goat, with such a small voice.

"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up,"
said the Troll.

"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm
too little, that I am," said the billy-goat.
"Wait a bit till the second billy-goat
Gruff comes; he's much bigger."

"Well! be off with you," said the
Troll.

A little while after came the second
billy-goat Gruff to cross the bridge.

"trip, trap! trip, trap! trip, trap!"
went the bridge.

"WHO'S THAT tripping over my
bridge?" roared the Troll.

"Oh! it's the second billy-goat Gruff,
and I'm going up to the hill-side to make
myself fat," said the billy-goat, who
hadn't such a small voice.

"TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP! TRIP,
TRAP!" went the bridge, for the billy-goat
was so heavy that the bridge creaked
and groaned under him.

"WHO'S THAT tramping over my
bridge?" roared the Troll.

"It's I! THE BIG BILLY-GOAT
GRUFF," said the billy-goat, who had
an ugly hoarse voice of his own.

"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up,"
roared the Troll.

"Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones."

That was what the big billy-goat said;
and so he flew at the Troll and poked[124]
his eyes out with his horns, and crushed
him to bits, body and bones, and tossed
him out into the burn, and after that
he went up to the hill-side. There the
billy-goats got so fat they were scarce
able to walk home again; and if the fat
hasn't fallen off them, why they're still
fat; and so,—

The following droll seems to indicate that the
folk had a strain of satirical humor which
they could use with fine effect. The translation
is that of Dasent's Popular Tales
from the Norse. (An old English verse form
of the same story will be found in No. 146.)
The old proverb about the shoemaker sticking
to his last is sure to come to mind as
one reads, but it seems to lose force when
we notice that the "goody" has no trouble
with the mowing, while the good "man"
has much with the housework!

THE HUSBAND WHO WAS TO
MIND THE HOUSE

Once on a time there was a man so
surly and cross he never thought his
wife did anything right in the house.
So one evening in hay-making time he
came home scolding and swearing and
showing his teeth and making a dust.

"Dear love, don't be so angry; there's
a good man," said his goody; "to-morrow
let's change our work. I'll go out with
the mowers and mow, and you shall mind
the house at home."

Yes! the husband thought that would do
very well. He was quite willing, he said.

So, early next morning, his goody took
a scythe over her neck and went out
into the hay-field with the mowers and
began to mow; but the man was to
mind the house, and do the work at home.

First of all, he wanted to churn the
butter; but when he had churned a
while, he got thirsty, and went down to
the cellar to tap a barrel of ale. So,
just when he had knocked in the bung,
and was putting the tap into the cask,
he heard overhead the pig come into
the kitchen. Then off he ran up the
cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as
fast as he could, to look after the pig
lest it should upset the churn; but when
he got up, and saw the pig had already
knocked the churn over, and stood there,
rooting and grunting amongst the cream
which was running all over the floor, he
got so wild with rage that he quite forgot
the ale-barrel, and ran at the pig
as hard as he could. He caught it, too,
just as it ran out of doors, and gave it
such a kick that piggy lay for dead on
the spot. Then all at once he remembered
he had the tap in his hand; but
when he got down to the cellar, every
drop of ale had run out of the cask.

Then he went into the dairy and found
enough cream left to fill the churn again,
and so he began to churn, for butter
they must have at dinner. When he
had churned a bit, he remembered that
their milking cow was still shut up in
the byre, and hadn't had a bit to eat
or a drop to drink all the morning,
though the sun was high. Then all at
once he thought 'twas too far to take
her down to the meadow, so he'd just
get her up on the house-top—for the
house, you must know, was thatched
with sods, and a fine crop of grass was
growing there. Now their house lay close
up against a steep down, and he thought
if he laid a plank across to the thatch at
the back he'd easily get the cow up.

But still he couldn't leave the churn,
for there was his little babe crawling[125]
about on the floor, and "if I leave it,"
he thought, "the child is safe to upset
it." So he took the churn on his back,
and went out with it; but then he
thought he'd better first water the cow
before he turned her out on the thatch;
so he took up a bucket to draw water
out of the well; but, as he stooped down
at the well's brink, all the cream ran
out of the churn over his shoulders, and
so down into the well.

Now it was near dinner-time, and he
hadn't even got the butter yet; so he
thought he'd best boil the porridge, and
filled the pot with water and hung it
over the fire. When he had done that,
he thought the cow might perhaps fall
off the thatch and break her legs or her
neck. So he got up on the house to
tie her up. One end of the rope he made
fast to the cow's neck, and the other he
slipped down the chimney and tied
round his own thigh; and he had to
make haste, for the water now began to
boil in the pot, and he had still to grind
the oatmeal.

So he began to grind away; but while
he was hard at it, down fell the cow off
the house-top after all, and as she fell,
she dragged the man up the chimney by
the rope. There he stuck fast; and as
for the cow, she hung half way down the
wall, swinging between heaven and earth,
for she could neither get down nor up.

And now the goody had waited seven
lengths and seven breadths for her husband
to come and call them home to
dinner; but never a call they had. At
last she thought she'd waited long
enough, and went home. But when she
got there and saw the cow hanging in
such an ugly place, she ran up and cut
the rope in two with her scythe. But
as she did this, down came her husband
out of the chimney; and so when his
old dame came inside the kitchen, there
she found him standing on his head in
the porridge pot.

The artistic qualities of "Boots and His
Brothers," from Dasent's Popular Tales
from the Norse, will impress every reader or
listener. It belongs to that very numerous
group of stories dealing with the success
of the youngest child in the face of opposition,
mistreatment, or lack of sympathy
from others of his family. "John was
Boots, of course, because he was the
youngest"; which means that it was the
rule to give the most menial tasks about the
house to the youngest. But John had the
saving trait of always "wondering" about
things, which led him to find out what
would always be hidden from his more
stupid and less imaginative brothers.

BOOTS AND HIS BROTHERS

Once on a time there was a man who
had three sons, Peter, Paul, and John.
John was Boots, of course, because he
was the youngest. I can't say the man
had anything more than these three sons,
for he hadn't one penny to rub against
another; and so he told his sons over
and over again they must go out into
the world and try to earn their bread,
for there at home there was nothing
to be looked for but starving to death.

Now, a bit off the man's cottage was
the King's palace, and you must know,
just against the King's windows a great
oak had sprung up, which was so stout
and big that it took away all the light
from the King's palace. The King had
said he would give many, many dollars
to the man who could fell the oak, but
no one was man enough for that, for as
soon as ever one chip of the oak's trunk[126]
flew off, two grew in its stead. A well,
too, the King would have dug, which was
to hold water for the whole year; for all
his neighbors had wells, but he hadn't
any, and that he thought a shame. So
the King said he would give any one
who could dig him such a well as would
hold water for a whole year round, both
money and goods; but no one could do
it, for the King's palace lay high, high
up on a hill, and they hadn't dug a few
inches before they came upon the living
rock.

But as the King had set his heart on
having these two things done, he had
it given out far and wide, in all the
churches of his kingdom, that he who
could fell the big oak in the king's
court-yard, and get him a well that would
hold water the whole year round, should
have the Princess and half the kingdom.
Well! you may easily know there was
many a man who came to try his luck;
but for all their hacking and hewing, and
all their digging and delving, it was no
good. The oak got bigger and stouter
at every stroke, and the rock didn't get
softer either. So one day those three
brothers thought they'd set off and try
too, and their father hadn't a word
against it; for even if they didn't get
the Princess and half the kingdom, it
might happen they might get a place
somewhere with a good master; and
that was all he wanted. So when the
brothers said they thought of going to
the palace, their father said "yes" at
once. So Peter, Paul, and Jack went
off from their home.

Well! they hadn't gone far before
they came to a fir wood, and up along
one side of it rose a steep hillside, and
as they went, they heard something
hewing and hacking away up on the hill
among the trees.

"I wonder now what it is that is
hewing away up yonder?" said Jack.

"You're always so clever with your
wonderings," said Peter and Paul both
at once. "What wonder is it, pray,
that a woodcutter should stand and
hack up on a hillside?"

"Still, I'd like to see what it is, after
all," said Jack; and up he went.

"Oh, if you're such a child, 'twill do
you good to go and take a lesson,"
bawled out his brothers after him.

But Jack didn't care for what they
said; he climbed the steep hillside
towards where the noise came, and when
he reached the place, what do you think
he saw? Why, an axe that stood there
hacking and hewing, all of itself, at the
trunk of a fir.

"Good day!" said Jack. "So you
stand here all alone and hew, do you?"

"Yes; here I've stood and hewed and
hacked a long, long time, waiting for
you," said the Axe.

"Well, here I am at last," said Jack,
as he took the axe, pulled it off its haft,
and stuffed both head and haft into his
wallet.

So when he got down again to his
brothers, they began to jeer and laugh
at him.

"And now, what funny thing was it
you saw up yonder on the hillside?"
they said.

"Oh, it was only an axe we heard,"
said Jack.

So when they had gone a bit farther,
they came under a steep spur of rock,
and up there they heard something digging
and shoveling.

"I wonder now," said Jack, "what it[127]
is digging and shoveling up yonder at
the top of the rock!"

"Ah, you're always so clever with
your wonderings," said Peter and Paul
again, "as if you'd never heard a woodpecker
hacking and pecking at a hollow
tree."

"Well, well," said Jack, "I think it
would be a piece of fun just to see what
it really is."

And so off he set to climb the rock,
while the others laughed and made game
of him. But he didn't care a bit for
that; up he climbed, and when he got
near the top, what do you think he saw?
Why, a spade that stood there digging
and delving.

"Good day!" said Jack. "So you
stand here all alone, and dig and delve!"

"Yes, that's what I do," said the
Spade, "and that's what I've done this
many a long day, waiting for you."

"Well, here I am," said Jack again,
as he took the spade and knocked it
off its handle, and put it into his wallet,
and then down again to his brothers.

"Well, what was it, so rare and
strange," said Peter and Paul, "that
you saw up there at the top of the
rock?"

"Oh," said Jack, "nothing more than
a spade; that was what we heard."

So they went on again a good bit, till
they came to a brook. They were
thirsty, all three, after their long walk,
and so they lay down beside the brook
to have a drink.

"I wonder now," said Jack, "where all
this water comes from!"

"I wonder if you're right in your
head," said Peter and Paul, in one
breath. "If you're not mad already,
you'll go mad very soon, with your
wonderings. Where the brook comes
from, indeed! Have you never heard
how water rises from a spring in the
earth?"

"Yes! but still I've a great fancy to
see where this brook comes from," said
Jack.

So up alongside the brook he went,
in spite of all that his brothers bawled
after him. Nothing could stop him.
On he went. So, as he went up and up,
the brook got smaller and smaller, and
at last, a little way farther on, what do
you think he saw? Why, a great walnut,
and out of that the water trickled.

"Good day!" said Jack again. "So
you lie here, and trickle and run down
all alone?"

"Yes, I do," said the Walnut, "and
here have I trickled and run this many
a long day, waiting for you."

"Well, here I am," said Jack, as he
took up a lump of moss, and plugged
up the hole, that the water mightn't
run out. Then he put the walnut into
his wallet, and ran down to his brothers.

"Well, now," said Peter and Paul, "have
you found out where the water comes
from? A rare sight it must have been!"

"Oh, after all, it was only a hole it
ran out of," said Jack; and so the others
laughed and made game of him again,
but Jack didn't mind that a bit.

"After all, I had the fun of seeing it,"
said he.

So when they had gone a bit farther,
they came to the King's palace; but
as every one in the kingdom had heard
how they might win the Princess and
half the realm, if they could only fell
the big oak and dig the King's well, so
many had come to try their luck that
the oak was now twice as stout and big
as it had been at first, for two chips
grew for every one they hewed out with[128]
their axes, as I dare say you all bear in
mind. So the King had now laid it
down as a punishment, that if any one
tried and couldn't fell the oak, he should
be put on a barren island, and both his
ears were to be clipped off. But the
two brothers didn't let themselves be
scared by that; they were quite sure
they could fell the oak, and Peter, as
he was eldest, was to try his hand first;
but it went with him as with all the rest
who had hewn at the oak; for every
chip he cut out, two grew in its place.
So the King's men seized him, and
clipped off both his ears, and put him
out on the island.

Now Paul, he was to try his luck, but
he fared just the same; when he had
hewn two or three strokes, they began
to see the oak grow, and so the King's
men seized him too, and clipped his ears,
and put him out on the island; and his
ears they clipped closer, because they
said he ought to have taken a lesson from
his brother.

So now Jack was to try.

"If you will look like a marked sheep,
we're quite ready to clip your ears at
once, and then you'll save yourself some
bother," said the King, for he was
angry with him for his brothers' sake.

"Well, I'd like just to try first," said
Jack, and so he got leave. Then he
took his axe out of his wallet and fitted
it to its haft.

"Hew away!" said he to his axe; and
away it hewed, making the chips fly
again, so that it wasn't long before
down came the oak.

When that was done, Jack pulled out
his spade, and fitted it to its handle.

"Dig away!" said he to the spade;
and so the spade began to dig and delve
till the earth and rock flew out in splinters,
and so he had the well soon dug
out, you may think.

And when he had got it as big and
deep as he chose, Jack took out his
walnut and laid it in one corner of
the well, and pulled the plug of moss
out.

"Trickle and run," said Jack; and so
the nut trickled and ran, till the water
gushed out of the hole in a stream, and
in a short time the well was brimful.

Then Jack had felled the oak which
shaded the King's palace, and dug a well
in the palace-yard, and so he got the
Princess and half the kingdom, as the
King had said; but it was lucky for
Peter and Paul that they had lost their
ears, else they had heard each hour and
day how every one said, "Well, after
all, Jack wasn't so much out of his
mind when he took to wondering."

For the next story from the Norse group the
translation by H. L. Braekstad is used.
It is better known under the more familiar
title of the Dasent version, "Why the Sea
Is Salt." Braekstad's translation of the
Asbjörnsen and Moe stories, illustrated by
Norwegian artists, appeared in two volumes
called Round the Yule Log and Fairy Tales
from the North. The story of the magic
hand-mill is the story of how an evil brother
violated the Christmas spirit and how his
curse was turned into good fortune for his
better-disposed relative. The naïve idea
of the common folk as to the devil's home
is especially interesting, as is the acceptance
of the fact that a Christmas celebration
includes a fine open fire of wood, even in a
place of unusual warmth. But perhaps we
should remember that in Norse mythology
the evil place would be associated with
intense cold. Of more importance, however,
is the fact that the magic quern brings[129]
not good but disaster to those who try to
use it in the service of greed.

THE QUERN AT THE BOTTOM
OF THE SEA

Once upon a time in the old, old days
there were two brothers, one of whom
was rich and the other poor. When
Christmas Eve came the poor brother
had not a morsel in the house, neither
of meat nor bread; and so he went to
his rich brother and asked for a trifle
for Christmas, in heaven's name. It
was not the first time the brother had
helped him, but he was always very
close-fisted, and was not particularly
glad to see him this time.

"If you'll do what I tell you, you
shall have a whole ham," he said. The
poor brother promised he would, and
was very grateful into the bargain.

"There it is, and now go to the devil!"
said the rich brother, and threw the
ham across to him.

"Well, what I have promised I must
keep," said the other one. He took the
ham, and set out. He walked and
walked the whole day, and as it was
getting dark he came to a place where
the lights were shining brightly. "This
is most likely the place," thought the
man with the ham.

In the woodshed stood an old man
with a long white beard, cutting fire-wood
for Christmas.

"Good evening," said he with the ham.

"Good evening to you," said the man.
"Where are you going so late?"

"I am going to the devil—that is to
say, if I am on the right way," answered
the poor man.

"Yes, you are quite right; this is his
place," said the old man. "When you
get in, they will all want to buy your
ham, for ham is scarce food here; but
you must not sell it unless you get the
hand-quern, which stands just behind
the door. When you come out again,
I'll teach you how to use it. You will
find it useful in many ways."

The man with the ham thanked him
for all the information, and knocked at
the door.

When he got in, it happened just as the
old man had said. All the imps, both
big and small, flocked around him like
ants in a field, and the one outbid the
other for the ham.

"Well," said the man, "my good
woman and I were to have it for Christmas
Eve, but since you want it so badly
I will let you have it. But if I am going
to part with it, I want that hand-quern
which stands behind the door."

The devil did not like to part with it,
and higgled and haggled with the man, but
he stuck to what he had said, and in the
end the devil had to part with the quern.

When the man came out, he asked the
old wood-cutter how he was to use the
quern, and when he had learned this, he
thanked the old man and set out homewards
as quickly as he could; but after
all he did not get home till the clock
struck twelve on Christmas Eve.

"Where in all the world have you
been?" said his wife. "Here have I
been sitting, hour after hour, waiting
and watching for you, and have not had
as much as two chips to lay under the
porridge pot."

"Well, I couldn't get back before,"
said the man. "I have had a good
many things to look after, and I've had
a long way to walk as well; but now
I'll show you something," said he, and
put the quern on the table. He asked
it first to grind candles, then a cloth,[130]
and then food and beer, and everything
else that was good for Christmas cheer;
and as he spoke the quern brought them
forth. The woman crossed herself time
after time and wanted to know where
her husband had got the quern from;
but this he would not tell her.

"It does not matter where I got it
from; you see the quern is good and the
mill stream is not likely to freeze," said
the man. So he ground food and drink
and all good things during Christmas;
and the third day he invited his friends,
as he wanted to give them a feast.
When the rich brother saw all that was
in the house, he became both angry
and furious, for he begrudged his brother
everything.

"On Christmas Eve he was so needy
that he came to me and asked for a
trifle in heaven's name; and now he
gives a feast, as if he were both a count
and a king," said the brother. "Where
did you get all your riches from?" he
said to his brother.

"From just behind the door," he
answered, for he did not care to tell
his brother much about it. But later
in the evening, when he had drunk a
little freely, he could no longer resist,
but brought out the quern.

"There you see that which has brought
me all my riches," he said, and so he
let the quern grind first one thing and
then another.

When the brother saw this, he was
determined to have the quern at all cost,
and at last it was settled he should have
it, but three hundred dollars was to be
the price of it. The brother was, however,
to keep it till the harvest began;
"for if I keep it so long, I can grind out
food for many years to come," he thought.

During that time you may be sure
the quern did not rust, and when the
harvest began the rich brother got it;
but the other had taken great care not
to show him how to use it.

It was evening when the rich brother
got the quern home, and in the morning
he asked his wife to go out and help the
haymakers; he would get the breakfast
ready himself to-day, he said.

When it was near breakfast time he
put the quern on the breakfast table.

"Grind herrings and broth, and do it
quickly and well," said the man, and
the quern began to bring forth herrings
and broth, and filled first all the dishes
and tubs, and afterwards began flooding
the whole kitchen.

The man fiddled and fumbled and tried
to stop the quern, but however much he
twisted and fingered it, the quern went
on grinding, and in a little while the
broth reached so high that the man was
very near drowning. He then pulled
open the parlor door, but it was not
long before the quern had filled the
parlor also, and it was just in the very
nick of time that the man put his hand
down into the broth and got hold of the
latch, and when he had got the door
open, he was soon out of the parlor,
you may be sure. He rushed out, and
the herrings and the broth came pouring
out after him, like a stream, down
the fields and meadows.

The wife, who was out haymaking,
now thought it took too long a time to
get the breakfast ready.

"If my husband doesn't call us soon,
we must go home whether or no: I
don't suppose he knows much about making
broth, so I must go and help
him," said the wife to the haymakers.

They began walking homewards, but
when they had got a bit up the hill they[131]
met the stream of broth with the herrings
tossing about in it and the man
himself running in front of it all.

"I wish all of you had a hundred
stomachs each!" shouted the man; "but
take care you don't get drowned." And
he rushed past them as if the Evil One
was at his heels, down to where his
brother lived. He asked him for heaven's
sake to take back the quern, and
that at once. "If it goes on grinding
another hour the whole parish will perish
in broth and herrings," he said. But
the brother would not take it back on
any account before his brother had paid
him three hundred dollars more, and
this he had to do. The poor brother
now had plenty of money, and before
long he bought a farm much grander
than the one on which his rich brother
lived, and with the quern he ground so
much gold that he covered the farmstead
with gold plates and, as it lay
close to the shore, it glittered and shone
far out at sea. All those who sailed
past wanted to call and visit the rich
man in the golden house, and everybody
wanted to see the wonderful quern,
for its fame had spread both far and
wide, and there was no one who had
not heard it spoken of.

After a long while there came a skipper
who wanted to see the quern; he
asked if it could grind salt. Yes, that
it could, said he who owned it; and
when the skipper heard this he wanted
the quern by hook or by crook, cost
what it might, for if he had it he thought
he need not sail far away across dangerous
seas for cargoes of salt.

At first the man did not want to part
with it, but the skipper both begged and
prayed, and at last he sold it and got
many, many thousand dollars for it.

As soon as the skipper had got the
quern on his back he did not stop long,
for he was afraid the man would change
his mind, and as for asking how to use
it, he had no time to do that; he made
for his ship as quickly as he could, and
when he had got out to sea a bit he had
the quern brought up on deck.

"Grind salt, and that both quickly
and well," said the skipper, and the
quern began to grind out salt so that it
spurted to all sides.

When the skipper had got the ship
filled he wanted to stop the quern, but
however much he tried and whatever
he did the quern went on grinding, and
the mound of salt grew higher and
higher, and at last the ship sank.

There at the bottom of the sea stands
the quern grinding till this very day, and
that is the reason why the sea is salt.

The next seven stories are from the best
known of all collections of folk tales, the
Kinder und Hausmärchen (1812-1815) of
the brothers Jacob Grimm (1785-1863)
and Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859). They
worked together as scholarly investigators
in the field of philology. The world is
indebted to them for the creation of the
science of folklore. Other writers, such as
Perrault, had published collections of folklore,
but these two brothers were the first
to collect, classify, and publish folk tales in
a scientific way. With the trained judgment
of scholars they excluded from the
stories all details that seemed new or foreign,
and put them as nearly as possible
into the form in which they had been told
by the folk. These Household Tales were
first made accessible in English in the
translation of Edgar Taylor, published in
two volumes in 1823 and 1826, and revised
in 1837. There have been later translations,
notably the complete one by Margaret[132]
Hunt in 1884, but the Taylor version has
been the main source of the popular
retellings for nearly a hundred years. It
included only about fifty of the two hundred
tales, and was illustrated by the
famous artist George Cruikshank. An
edition including all the Taylor translations
and the original etchings was issued in
1868 with an introduction by John Ruskin.
It is still reprinted under the title, Grimm's
Popular Stories.

"The Traveling Musicians" is from the Taylor
translation. It is sometimes called
"The Bremen Town Musicians," or simply
"The Town Musicians." The story
is widespread, showing its great popularity.
Jacobs finds "the fullest and most dramatic
form" in the Irish "Jack and His
Comrades," which he includes in his Celtic
Fairy Tales. Jacobs also gives an English
version by way of America, "How Jack
Sought His Fortune," in his English
Fairy Tales. The successful outcome for
these distressed and deserving poor adventurers
appeals as a fine stroke of poetic
justice.

THE TRAVELING MUSICIANS

An honest farmer had once an ass that
had been a faithful servant to him a
great many years, but was now growing
old and every day more and more unfit
for work. His master therefore was tired
of keeping him and began to think of
putting an end to him; but the ass, who
saw that some mischief was in the wind,
took himself slyly off and began his journey
towards the great city, "for there,"
thought he, "I may turn musician."

After he had traveled a little way, he
spied a dog lying by the road-side and
panting as if he were very tired. "What
makes you pant so, my friend?" said the
ass.

"Alas!" said the dog, "my master was
going to knock me on the head because I
am old and weak and can no longer make
myself useful to him in hunting; so I ran
away: but what can I do to earn my livelihood?"

"Hark ye!" said the ass, "I am going
to the great city to turn musician: suppose
you go with me and try what you
can do in the same way?" The dog said
he was willing, and they jogged on
together.

Before they had gone far, they saw a
cat sitting in the middle of the road and
making a most rueful face. "Pray, my
good lady," said the ass, "what's the
matter with you? You look quite out of
spirits!"

"Ah, me!" said the cat, "how can one
be in good spirits when one's life is in
danger? Because I am beginning to
grow old and had rather lie at my ease
by the fire than run about the house after
the mice, my mistress laid hold of me
and was going to drown me; and though
I have been lucky enough to get away
from her, I do not know what I am to
live upon."

"Oh!" said the ass, "by all means go
with us to the great city. You are a good
night-singer and may make your fortune
as a musician." The cat was pleased
with the thought and joined the party.

Soon afterwards, as they were passing
by a farmyard, they saw a cock perched
upon a gate, screaming out with all his
might and main. "Bravo!" said the
ass; "upon my word you make a famous
noise; pray what is all this about?"

"Why," said the cock, "I was just now
saying that we should have fine weather
for our washing-day, and yet my mistress
and the cook don't thank me for my
pains, but threaten to cut off my head
tomorrow and make broth of me for the
guests that are coming on Sunday."[133]

"Heaven forbid!" said the ass; "come
with us, Master Chanticleer; it will be
better, at any rate, than staying here to
have your head cut off! Besides, who
knows? If we take care to sing in tune,
we may get up some kind of a concert:
so come along with us."

"With all my heart," said the cock: so
they all four went on jollily together.

They could not, however, reach the
great city the first day: so when night
came on they went into a wood to sleep.
The ass and the dog laid themselves down
under a great tree, and the cat climbed
up into the branches; while the cock,
thinking that the higher he sat the safer
he should be, flew up to the very top of
the tree, and then, according to his custom,
before he went to sleep, looked out
on all sides of him to see that everything
was well. In doing this, he saw afar
off something bright and shining; and
calling to his companions said, "There
must be a house no great way off, for I
see a light."

"If that be the case," said the ass, "we
had better change our quarters, for our
lodging is not the best in the world!"

"Besides," added the dog, "I should
not be the worse for a bone or two, or a
bit of meat." So they walked off together
towards the spot where Chanticleer
had seen the light; and as they
drew near, it became larger and brighter,
till they at last came close to a house in
which a gang of robbers lived.

The ass, being the tallest of the company,
marched up to the window and
peeped in. "Well, Donkey," said Chanticleer,
"what do you see?"

"What do I see?" replied the ass,
"why I see a table spread with all kinds
of good things, and robbers sitting round
it making merry."

"That would be a noble lodging for
us," said the cock.

"Yes," said the ass, "if we could only
get in": so they consulted together how
they should contrive to get the robbers
out; and at last they hit upon a plan.
The ass placed himself upright on
his hind-legs, with his fore-feet resting
against the window; the dog got upon his
back; the cat scrambled up to the dog's
shoulders, and the cock flew up and sat
upon the cat's head. When all was
ready, a signal was given, and they began
their music. The ass brayed, the dog
barked, the cat mewed, and the cock
screamed; and then they all broke
through the window at once and came
tumbling into the room, amongst the
broken glass, with a most hideous clatter!
The robbers, who had been not a little
frightened by the opening concert, had
now no doubt that some frightful hobgoblin
had broken in upon them, and
scampered away as fast as they could.

The coast once clear, our travelers
soon sat down and dispatched what the
robbers had left, with as much eagerness
as if they had not expected to eat again
for a month. As soon as they had satisfied
themselves, they put out the lights
and each once more sought out a resting-place
to his own liking. The donkey laid
himself down upon a heap of straw in the
yard; the dog stretched himself upon a mat
behind the door; the cat rolled herself up
on the hearth before the warm ashes; and
the cock perched upon a beam on the top of
the house; and, as they were all rather tired
with their journey, they soon fell asleep.

But about midnight, when the robbers
saw from afar that the lights were out
and that all seemed quiet, they began to
think that they had been in too great a
hurry to run away; and one of them, who[134]
was bolder than the rest, went to see what
was going on. Finding everything still,
he marched into the kitchen and groped
about till he found a match in order to
light a candle; and then, espying the
glittering fiery eyes of the cat, he mistook
them for live coals and held the match
to them to light it. But the cat, not
understanding this joke, sprung at his
face, and spit, and scratched at him.
This frightened him dreadfully, and away
he ran to the back door; but there the
dog jumped up and bit him in the leg;
and as he was crossing over the yard the
ass kicked him; and the cock, who had
been awakened by the noise, crowed with
all his might. At this the robber ran
back as fast as he could to his comrades
and told the captain "how a horrid witch
had got into the house, and had spit at
him and scratched his face with her long
bony fingers; how a man with a knife in
his hand had hidden himself behind the
door and stabbed him in the leg; how a
black monster stood in the yard and
struck him with a club, and how the
devil sat upon the top of the house and
cried out, 'Throw the rascal up here!'"

After this the robbers never dared to go
back to the house; but the musicians
were so pleased with their quarters that
they took up their abode there; and there
they are, I dare say, at this very day.

The Taylor translation of Grimm is used for
"The Blue Light." This tale contains
several of the elements most popular in
children's stories. There is merit in distress,
an old witch, the magic blue light,
the little black dwarf, and the exceeding
great reward at the end. From this very
story or some variant of it Hans Christian
Andersen must have drawn the inspiration
for "The Tinder Box" (No. 196).

THE BLUE LIGHT

A soldier had served a king his master
many years, till at last he was turned off
without pay or reward. How he should
get his living he did not know; so he set
out and journeyed homeward all day in a
very downcast mood, until in the evening
he came to the edge of a deep wood.
The road leading that way, he pushed
forward; but before he had gone far, he
saw a light glimmering through the trees,
towards which he bent his weary steps;
and soon he came to a hut where no one
lived but an old witch. The poor fellow
begged for a night's lodging and something
to eat and drink; but she would
listen to nothing. However, he was not
easily got rid of; and at last she said, "I
think I will take pity on you this once;
but if I do, you must dig over all my garden
for me in the morning." The soldier
agreed very willingly to anything she
asked, and he became her guest.

The next day he kept his word and dug
the garden very neatly. The job lasted
all day; and in the evening, when his mistress
would have sent him away, he said,
"I am so tired with my work that I must
beg you to let me stay over the night."

The old lady vowed at first she would
not do any such thing; but after a great
deal of talk he carried his point, agreeing
to chop up a whole cart-load of wood for
her the next day.

This task too was duly ended; but not
till towards night, and then he found himself
so tired that he begged a third night's
rest; and this too was given, but only on
his pledging his word that he next day
would fetch the witch the blue light that
burnt at the bottom of the well.

When morning came she led him to the
well's mouth, tied him to a long rope, and
let him down. At the bottom sure[135]
enough he found the blue light as the
witch had said, and at once made the
signal for her to draw him up again.
But when she had pulled him up so near
to the top that she could reach him with
her hands, she said, "Give me the light:
I will take care of it,"—meaning to play
him a trick by taking it for herself and
letting him fall again to the bottom of
the well.

But the soldier saw through her wicked
thoughts, and said, "No, I shall not give
you the light till I find myself safe and
sound out of the well."

At this she became very angry and
dashed him, with the light she had longed
for many a year, down to the bottom.
And there lay the poor soldier for a while
in despair, on the damp mud below, and
feared that his end was nigh. But his
pipe happened to be in his pocket still
half full, and he thought to himself, "I
may as well make an end of smoking you
out; it is the last pleasure I shall have in
this world." So he lit it at the blue
light and began to smoke.

Up rose a cloud of smoke, and on a
sudden a little black dwarf was seen
making his way through the midst of it.
"What do you want with me, soldier?"
said he.

"I have no business with you,"
answered he.

But the dwarf said, "I am bound to
serve you in every thing, as lord and
master of the blue light."

"Then first of all, be so good as to help
me out of this well." No sooner said
than done: the dwarf took him by the
hand and drew him up, and the blue light
of course with him. "Now do me
another piece of kindness," said the soldier:
"pray let that old lady take my
place in the well."

When the dwarf had done this, and
lodged the witch safely at the bottom,
they began to ransack her treasures; and
the soldier made bold to carry off as
much of her gold and silver as he well
could. Then the dwarf said, "If you
should chance at any time to want me,
you have nothing to do but to light your
pipe at the blue light, and I will soon be
with you."

The soldier was not a little pleased at
his good luck, and went to the best inn
in the first town he came to and ordered
some fine clothes to be made and a handsome
room to be got ready for him.
When all was ready, he called his little
man to him and said, "The king sent me
away penniless and left me to hunger and
want. I have a mind to show him that
it is my turn to be master now; so bring
me his daughter here this evening, that
she may wait upon me and do what I bid
her."

"That is rather a dangerous task," said
the dwarf. But away he went, took
the princess out of her bed, fast asleep
as she was, and brought her to the
soldier.

Very early in the morning he carried
her back; and as soon as she saw her
father, she said, "I had a strange dream
last night. I thought I was carried away
through the air to a soldier's house, and
there I waited upon him as his servant."
Then the king wondered greatly at such
a story; but told her to make a hole in
her pocket and fill it with peas, so that
if it were really as she said, and the whole
was not a dream, the peas might fall out
in the streets as she passed through, and
leave a clue to tell whither she had been
taken. She did so; but the dwarf had
heard the king's plot; and when evening
came, and the soldier said he must bring[136]
him the princess again, he strewed peas
over several of the streets, so that the
few that fell from her pocket were not
known from the others; and the people
amused themselves all the next day picking
up peas and wondering where so
many came from.

When the princess told her father what
had happened to her the second time, he
said, "Take one of your shoes with you
and hide it in the room you are taken to."

The dwarf heard this also; and when
the soldier told him to bring the king's
daughter again, he said, "I cannot save
you this time; it will be an unlucky thing
for you if you are found out—as I think
you will." But the soldier would have
his own way. "Then you must take
care and make the best of your way out
of the city gate very early in the morning,"
said the dwarf.

The princess kept one shoe on as her
father bid her, and hid it in the soldier's
room; and when she got back to her
father, he ordered it to be sought for all
over the town; and at last it was found
where she had hid it. The soldier had
run away, it is true; but he had been too
slow and was soon caught and thrown
into a strong prison and loaded with
chains. What was worse, in the hurry of
his flight, he had left behind him his great
treasure, the blue light, and all his gold,
and had nothing left in his pocket but
one poor ducat.

As he was standing very sorrowful at
the prison grating, he saw one of his comrades,
and calling out to him said, "If
you will bring me a little bundle I left
in the inn, I will give you a ducat."

His comrade thought this very good
pay for such a job; so he went away and
soon came back bringing the blue light
and the gold. Then the prisoner soon
lit his pipe. Up rose the smoke, and with
it came his old friend, the little dwarf.
"Do not fear, master," said he: "keep
up your heart at your trial and leave
everything to take its course;—only
mind to take the blue light with you."

The trial soon came on; the matter
was sifted to the bottom; the prisoner
found guilty, and his doom passed:—he
was ordered to be hanged forthwith on the
gallows-tree.

But as he was led out, he said he had
one favor to beg of the king. "What is
it?" said his majesty.

"That you will deign to let me smoke
one pipe on the road."

"Two, if you like," said the king.

Then he lit his pipe at the blue light,
and the black dwarf was before him in a
moment. "Be so good as to kill, slay,
or put to flight all these people," said the
soldier: "and as for the king, you may
cut him into three pieces."

Then the dwarf began to lay about
him, and soon got rid of the crowd
around: but the king begged hard for
mercy; and, to save his life, agreed to let
the soldier have the princess for his wife
and to leave the kingdom to him when he
died.

The following tale is from Taylor's translation
of Grimm. The cheerful industry and the
kindly gratitude of the shoemaker and his
wife, together with the gayety of the little
elves, make the story altogether charming.
No doubt its popularity was helped by
Cruikshank's famous accompanying etching,
showing the scene at the close, in which
the two elves "are drawn with a point
at once so precise and vivacious, so full of
keen fun and inimitably happy invention,
that I have not found their equal in comic
etching anywhere. . . . The picturesque[137]
details of the room are etched with the same
felicitous intelligence; but the marvel of
the work is in the expression of the strange
little faces, and the energy of the comical
wee limbs." (Hamerton, Etching and
Etchers.)

THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER

There was once a shoemaker who
worked very hard and was very honest;
but still he could not earn enough to
live upon, and at last all he had in the
world was gone, except just leather
enough to make one pair of shoes. Then
he cut them all ready to make up the
next day, meaning to get up early in
the morning to work. His conscience
was clear and his heart light amidst all
his troubles; so he went peaceably to
bed, left all his cares to heaven, and fell
asleep. In the morning, after he had
said his prayers, he set himself down to
his work, but to his great wonder, there
stood the shoes, all ready made, upon
the table. The good man knew not
what to say or think of this strange
event. He looked at the workmanship:
there was not one false stitch in the whole
job, and all was so neat and true that
it was a complete masterpiece.

That same day a customer came in,
and the shoes pleased him so well that
he willingly paid a price higher than
usual for them; and the poor shoemaker
with the money bought leather enough
to make two pairs more. In the evening
he cut out the work and went to
bed early that he might get up and begin
betimes next day: but he was saved all
the trouble, for when he got up in the
morning the work was finished ready to
his hand. Presently in came buyers,
who paid him handsomely for his goods,
so that he bought leather enough for
four pairs more. He cut out the work
again over night, and found it finished
in the morning as before; and so it went
on for some time: what was got ready in
the evening was always done by daybreak,
and the good man soon became
thriving and prosperous again.

One evening about Christmas time, as
he and his wife were sitting over the
fire chatting together, he said to her,
"I should like to sit up and watch
to-night, that we may see who it is that
comes and does my work for me." The
wife liked the thought; so they left a
light burning and hid themselves in the
corner of the room behind a curtain that
was hung up there, and watched what
should happen.

As soon as it was midnight, there came
two little naked dwarfs; and they sat
themselves upon the shoemaker's bench,
took up all the work that was cut out,
and began to ply with their little fingers,
stitching and rapping and tapping away
at such a rate that the shoemaker was
all amazement and could not take his
eyes off for a moment. And on they
went till the job was quite finished, and
the shoes stood ready for use upon the
table. This was long before daybreak;
and then they bustled away as quick as
lightning.

The next day the wife said to the
shoemaker, "These little wights have
made us rich, and we ought to be thankful
to them and do them a good office
in return. I am quite vexed to see them
run about as they do; they have nothing
upon their backs to keep off the cold.
I'll tell you what, I will make each of
them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat,
and a pair of pantaloons into the bargain;
do you make each of them a little pair
of shoes."[138]

The thought pleased the good shoemaker
very much; and one evening,
when all the things were ready, they
laid them on the table instead of the
work that they used to cut out, and
then went and hid themselves to watch
what the little elves would do. About
midnight they came in and were going
to sit down to their work as usual; but
when they saw the clothes lying for
them, they laughed and were greatly
delighted. Then they dressed themselves
in the twinkling of an eye, and
danced and capered and sprang about
as merry as could be, till at last they
danced out at the door and over the
green; and the shoemaker saw them no
more; but everything went well with
him from that time forward, as long as
he lived.

In a note regarding "The Fisherman and His
Wife," Taylor calls attention to the interesting
fact that this tale became a great
favorite after the battle of Waterloo "during
the fervor of popular feeling on the
downfall of the late Emperor of France."
The catastrophe attendant upon Napoleon's
ambitious efforts seemed to the popular
mind to be paralleled by the penalty
following the final wish of the wife "to be
like unto God." But observe that Taylor,
unlike more recent translators, felt under
the necessity of softening "the boldness of
the lady's ambition." The versions of the
verse charm used in summoning the fish
differ strikingly in the various translations.
That of Taylor's first edition, used here,
seems to fit the story better than any other,
though tellers of the story may, properly
enough, not agree. Taylor's revised version
of 1837 reads:

"O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

Mrs. Hunt's version runs:

"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, come to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."

The moral of the story is plain for those
who need it: Greed overreaches itself.
Who grasps too much loses all. Don't
ride a free horse to death.

THE FISHERMAN AND HIS
WIFE

There was once a fisherman who lived
with his wife in a ditch, close by the
sea-side. The fisherman used to go out
all day long a-fishing; and one day, as
he sat on the shore with his rod, looking
at the shining water and watching his
line, all on a sudden his float was dragged
away deep under the sea: and in drawing
it up he pulled a great fish out of the
water. The fish said to him, "Pray let
me live: I am not a real fish; I am an
enchanted prince. Put me in the water
again, and let me go."

"Oh!" said the man, "you need not
make so many words about the matter.
I wish to have nothing to do with a fish
that can talk; so swim away as soon as
you please." Then he put him back
into the water, and the fish darted
straight down to the bottom and left a
long streak of blood behind him.

When the fisherman went home to his
wife in the ditch, he told her how he had
caught a great fish, and how it had told
him it was an enchanted prince, and that
on hearing it speak he had let it go again.

"Did you not ask it for anything?"
said the wife.

"No," said the man, "what should I
ask for?"

"Ah!" said the wife, "we live very[139]
wretchedly here in this nasty stinking
ditch. Do go back, and tell the fish we
want a little cottage."

The fisherman did not much like the
business; however he went to the sea,
and when he came there the water looked
all yellow and green. And he stood at
the water's edge, and said,

"O man of the sea!Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

Then the fish came swimming to him,
and said, "Well, what does she want?"

"Ah!" answered the fisherman, "my
wife says that when I had caught you, I
ought to have asked you for something
before I let you go again. She does not
like living any longer in the ditch, and
wants a little cottage."

"Go home, then," said the fish. "She
is in the cottage already."

So the man went home and saw his
wife standing at the door of a cottage.
"Come in, come in," said she; "is not
this much better than the ditch?" And
there was a parlor, and a bed-chamber,
and a kitchen; and behind the cottage
there was a little garden with all sorts
of flowers and fruits, and a court-yard
full of ducks and chickens.

"Ah!" said the fisherman, "how happily
we shall live!"

"We will try to do so at least," said
his wife.

Everything went right for a week or
two, and then Dame Alice said, "Husband,
there is not room enough in this
cottage; the court-yard and garden are
a great deal too small. I should like to
have a large stone castle to live in; so
go to the fish again, and tell him to give
us a castle."

"Wife," said the fisherman, "I don't
like to go to him again, for perhaps he
will be angry. We ought to be content
with the cottage."

"Nonsense!" said the wife; "he will
do it very willingly. Go along, and try."

The fisherman went; but his heart
was very heavy: and when he came to
the sea, it looked blue and gloomy,
though it was quite calm, and he went
close to it and said,

"O man of the sea!Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

"Well, what does she want now?"
said the fish.

"Ah!" said the man very sorrowfully,
"my wife wants to live in a stone castle."

"Go home then," said the fish. "She
is standing at the door of it already."
So away went the fisherman and found
his wife standing before a great castle.

"See," said she, "is not this grand?"
With that they went into the castle
together and found a great many servants
there and the rooms all richly furnished
and full of golden chairs and tables; and
behind the castle was a garden, and a
wood half a mile long, full of sheep, and
goats, and hares, and deer; and in the
court-yard were stables and cow-houses.

"Well," said the man, "now will we
live contented and happy in this beautiful
castle for the rest of our lives."

"Perhaps we may," said the wife;
"but let us consider and sleep upon it
before we make up our minds": so they
went to bed.

The next morning when Dame Alice
awoke, it was broad daylight, and she
jogged the fisherman with her elbow and[140]
said, "Get up, husband, and bestir yourself,
for we must be king of all the land."

"Wife, wife," said the man, "why
should we wish to be king? I will not
be king."

"Then I will," said Alice.

"But, wife," answered the fisherman,
"how can you be king? The fish cannot
make you a king."

"Husband," said she, "say no more
about it, but go and try. I will be king!"

So the man went away, quite sorrowful
to think that his wife should want
to be king. The sea looked a dark grey
color, and was covered with foam as he
cried out,

"O man of the sea!Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

"Well, what would she have now?"
said the fish.

"Alas!" said the man, "my wife wants
to be king."

"Go home," said the fish. "She is
king already."

Then the fisherman went home; and
as he came close to the palace, he saw
a troop of soldiers and heard the sound
of drums and trumpets; and when he
entered in, he saw his wife sitting on a
high throne of gold and diamonds, with
a golden crown upon her head; and on
each side of her stood six beautiful
maidens, each a head taller than the
other. "Well, wife," said the fisherman,
"are you king?"

"Yes," said she, "I am king."

And when he had looked at her for a
long time, he said, "Ah, wife! what a fine
thing it is to be king! Now we shall
never have anything more to wish for."

"I don't know how that may be," said
she; "never is a long time. I am king,
'tis true, but I begin to be tired of it,
and I think I should like to be emperor."

"Alas, wife! why should you wish to
be emperor?" said the fisherman.

"Husband," said she, "go to the fish;
I say I will be emperor."

"Ah, wife!" replied the fisherman,
"the fish cannot make an emperor, and
I should not like to ask for such a thing."

"I am king," said Alice, "and you
are my slave, so go directly!"

So the fisherman was obliged to go;
and he muttered as he went along, "This
will come to no good. It is too much to
ask. The fish will be tired at last, and
then we shall repent of what we have
done." He soon arrived at the sea, and
the water was quite black and muddy,
and a mighty whirlwind blew over it;
but he went to the shore, and said,

"O man of the sea!Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

"What would she have now!" said the
fish.

"Ah!" said the fisherman, "she wants
to be emperor."

"Go home," said the fish. "She is
emperor already."

So he went home again; and as he
came near he saw his wife sitting on a
very lofty throne made of solid gold,
with a great crown on her head full two
yards high, and on each side of her stood
her guards and attendants in a row, each
one smaller than the other, from the
tallest giant down to a little dwarf no
bigger than my finger. And before her
stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and
the fisherman went up to her and said,
"Wife, are you emperor?"[141]

"Yes," said she, "I am emperor."

"Ah!" said the man as he gazed upon
her, "what a fine thing it is to be
emperor!"

"Husband," said she, "why should we
stay at being emperor; I will be pope
next."

"O wife, wife!" said he, "how can
you be pope? There is but one pope
at a time in Christendom."

"Husband," said she, "I will be pope
this very day."

"But," replied the husband, "the fish
cannot make you pope."

"What nonsense!" said she, "if he can
make an emperor, he can make a pope.
Go and try him."

So the fisherman went. But when he
came to the shore the wind was raging,
and the sea was tossed up and down like
boiling water, and the ships were in the
greatest distress and danced upon the
waves most fearfully. In the middle of
the sky there was a little blue, but toward
the south it was all red as if a dreadful
storm were rising. At this the fisherman
was terribly frightened, and trembled, so
that his knees knocked together: but
he went to the shore and said,

"O man of the sea!Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

"What does she want now?" said the
fish.

"Ah!" said the fisherman, "my wife
wants to be pope."

"Go home," said the fish. "She is
pope already."

Then the fisherman went home and
found his wife sitting on a throne that
was two miles high; and she had three
great crowns on her head, and around
stood all the pomp and power of the
Church; and on each side were two rows
of burning lights of all sizes, the greatest
as large as the highest and biggest tower
in the world, and the least no larger
than a small rushlight. "Wife," said
the fisherman as he looked at all this
grandeur, "are you pope?"

"Yes," said she, "I am pope."

"Well, wife," replied he, "it is a grand
thing to be pope; and now you must be
content, for you can be nothing greater."

"I will consider of that," said the wife.
Then they went to bed: but Dame Alice
could not sleep all night for thinking
what she should be next. At last morning
came, and the sun rose. "Ha!"
thought she as she looked at it through
the window, "cannot I prevent the sun
rising?" At this she was very angry,
and she wakened her husband and said,
"Husband, go to the fish and tell him I
want to be lord of the sun and moon."
The fisherman was half asleep, but
the thought frightened him so much
that he started and fell out of bed.
"Alas, wife!" said he, "cannot you be
content to be pope?"

"No," said she, "I am very uneasy,
and cannot bear to see the sun and
moon rise without my leave. Go to
the fish directly."

Then the man went trembling for fear;
and as he was going down to the shore
a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees
and the rocks shook; and the heavens
became black, and the lightning played,
and the thunder rolled; and you might
have seen in the sea great black waves
like mountains with a white crown of
foam upon them; and the fisherman
said,

"O man of the sea![142]Come listen to me,For Alice my wife,The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"

"What does she want now?" said
the fish.

"Ah!" said he, "she wants to be lord
of the sun and moon." "Go home,"
said the fish, "to your ditch again!"
And there they live to this very day.

The Grimm version of "The Sleeping Beauty"
is, by all odds, the finest one. Its perfect
economy in the use of story materials has
always been admired. Perrault's version
drags in an unnecessary ogre and spoils
a good story by not knowing when to stop.
The Grimm title is "Dornröschen," and the
more literal translation, "Brier Rose," is
the one generally used as the English title,
rather than the one given by Taylor,
whose translation follows. Tennyson has
a very beautiful poetic rendering of this
story in his "Day-Dream."

ROSE-BUD

Once upon a time there lived a king
and queen who had no children; and this
they lamented very much. But one day
as the queen was walking by the side of
the river, a little fish lifted its head out
of the water and said, "Your wish shall
be fulfilled, and you shall soon have a
daughter."

What the little fish had foretold soon
came to pass; and the queen had a little
girl that was so very beautiful that the
king could not cease looking on it for
joy, and determined to hold a great feast.
So he invited not only his relations,
friends, and neighbors, but also all the
fairies, that they might be kind and good
to his little daughter.

Now there were thirteen fairies in his
kingdom, and he had only twelve golden
dishes for them to eat out of, so he was
obliged to leave one of the fairies without
an invitation. The rest came, and after
the feast was over they gave all their best
gifts to the little princess: one gave her
virtue, another beauty, another riches,
and so on till she had all that was excellent
in the world. When eleven had done
blessing her, the thirteenth, who had not
been invited and was very angry on that
account, came in and determined to take
her revenge. So she cried out, "The
king's daughter shall in her fifteenth year
be wounded by a spindle, and fall down
dead."

Then the twelfth, who had not yet
given her gift, came forward and said
that the bad wish must be fulfilled, but
that she could soften it, and that the
king's daughter should not die, but fall
asleep for a hundred years.

But the king hoped to save his dear
child from the threatened evil and ordered
that all the spindles in the kingdom
should be bought up and destroyed. All
the fairies' gifts were in the meantime
fulfilled, for the princess was so beautiful,
and well-behaved, and amiable, and wise
that every one who knew her loved her.
Now it happened that on the very day
she was fifteen years old the king and
queen were not at home, and she was left
alone in the palace. So she roved about
by herself and looked at all the rooms
and chambers till at last she came to an
old tower, to which there was a narrow
staircase ending with a little door. In
the door there was a golden key, and when
she turned it the door sprang open, and
there sat an old lady spinning away very
busily. "Why, how now, good mother,"
said the princess, "what are you doing
there?"[143]

"Spinning," said the old lady, and
nodded her head.

"How prettily that little thing turns
round!" said the princess, and took the
spindle and began to spin. But scarcely
had she touched it before the prophecy
was fulfilled, and she fell down lifeless on
the ground.

However, she was not dead, but had
only fallen into a deep sleep; and the king
and the queen, who just then came home,
and all their court, fell asleep too; and the
horses slept in the stables, and the dogs
in the court, the pigeons on the house-top
and the flies on the walls. Even the
fire on the hearth left off blazing and
went to sleep; and the meat that was
roasting stood still; and the cook, who
was at that moment pulling the kitchen-boy
by the hair to give him a box on the
ear for something he had done amiss,
let him go, and both fell asleep; and so
everything stood still, and slept soundly.

A large hedge of thorns soon grew
round the palace, and every year it
became higher and thicker till at last the
whole palace was surrounded and hid,
so that not even the roof or the chimneys
could be seen. But there went a report
through all the land of the beautiful
sleeping Rose-Bud (for so was the king's
daughter called); so that from time to
time several kings' sons came and tried
to break through the thicket into the
palace. This they could never do, for
the thorns and bushes laid hold of them
as it were with hands, and there they
stuck fast and died miserably.

After many many years there came a
king's son into that land, and an old man
told him the story of the thicket of
thorns, and how a beautiful palace stood
behind it, in which was a wondrous princess,
called Rose-Bud, asleep with all her
court. He told, too, how he had heard
from his grandfather that many many
princes had come, and had tried to break
through the thicket, but had stuck fast
and died. Then the young prince said,
"All this shall not frighten me. I will
go and see Rose-Bud." The old man
tried to dissuade him, but he persisted
in going.

Now that very day were the hundred
years completed; and as the prince came
to the thicket, he saw nothing but beautiful
flowering shrubs, through which he
passed with ease, and they closed after
him as firm as ever. Then he came at
last to the palace, and there in the court
lay the dogs asleep, and the horses in the
stables, and on the roof sat the pigeons
fast asleep with their heads under their
wings; and when he came into the palace,
the flies slept on the walls, and the cook
in the kitchen was still holding up her
hand as if she would beat the boy, and the
maid sat with a black fowl in her hand
ready to be plucked.

Then he went on still further, and all
was so still that he could hear every
breath he drew; till at last he came to the
old tower and opened the door of the little
room in which Rose-Bud was, and there
she lay fast asleep, and looked so beautiful
that he could not take his eyes off, and
he stooped down and gave her a kiss.
But the moment he kissed her she opened
her eyes and awoke and smiled upon him.
Then they went out together, and presently
the king and queen also awoke, and
all the court, and they gazed on one
another with great wonder. And the
horses got up and shook themselves, and
the dogs jumped about and barked; the
pigeons took their heads from under their
wings and looked about and flew into the
fields; the flies on the walls buzzed away;[144]
the fire in the kitchen blazed up and
cooked the dinner, and the roast meat
turned round again; the cook gave the
boy the box on his ear so that he cried
out, and the maid went on plucking the
fowl. And then was the wedding of the
prince and Rose-Bud celebrated, and they
lived happily together all their lives long.

The story of "Rumpelstiltskin" is taken from
Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm.
It is the same story as "Tom Tit Tot"
(No. 160), and is given in order that the
teacher may compare the two. Grimm's
is the most familiar of the many versions
of this tale and is probably the best for use
with children, although the "little man"
lacks some of the fascinating power of
"that" with its twirling tail.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Once there was a miller who was poor,
but who had a beautiful daughter. Now
it happened that he had to go and speak
to the King, and in order to make himself
appear important he said to him,
"I have a daughter who can spin straw
into gold."

The King said to the miller, "That
is an art which pleases me well. If
your daughter is as clever as you say,
bring her tomorrow to my palace, and
I will try what she can do."

And when the girl was brought to
him he took her into a room which
was quite full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel
and a reel, and said, "Now
set to work, and if by tomorrow morning
early you have not spun this straw into
gold during the night, you must die."
Thereupon he himself locked up the
room, and left her in it alone. So there
sat the poor miller's daughter, and for
her life could not tell what to do. She
had no idea how straw could be spun
into gold, and she grew more and more
miserable, until at last she began to
weep.

But all at once the door opened, and
in came a little man, and said, "Good
evening, Mistress Miller; why are you
crying so?"

"Alas!" answered the girl, "I have to
spin straw into gold, and I do not know
how to do it."

"What will you give me," said the
manikin, "if I do it for you?"

"My necklace," said the girl. The
little man took the necklace, seated himself
in front of the wheel, and "whir,
whir, whir," three turns, and the reel
was full; then he put another on, and
"whir, whir, whir," three times round,
and the second was full, too. And so
it went on until the morning, when all
the straw was spun, and all the reels
were full of gold. By daybreak the
King was already there, and when he
saw the gold he was astonished and
delighted, but his heart became only
more greedy. He had the miller's daughter
taken into another room full of straw,
which was much larger, and commanded
her to spin that also in one night if she
valued her life. The girl knew not how
to help herself, and was crying, when
the door again opened, and the little
man appeared, and said, "What will
you give me if I spin the straw into gold
for you?"

"The ring on my finger," answered
the girl.

The little man took the ring, again
began to turn the wheel, and by morning
had spun all the straw into glittering
gold.

The King rejoiced beyond measure
at the sight, but still he had not gold[145]
enough; and he had the miller's daughter
taken into a still larger room full of straw,
and said, "You must spin this, too, in
the course of this night; but if you
succeed, you shall be my wife." "Even
if she be a miller's daughter," thought
he, "I could not find a richer wife in the
whole world."

When the girl was alone the manikin
came again for the third time, and said,
"What will you give me if I spin the
straw for you this time also?"

"I have nothing left that I could
give," answered the girl.

"Then promise me, if you should
become Queen, your first child."

"Who knows whether that will ever
happen?" thought the miller's daughter;
and, not knowing how else to help herself
in this strait, she promised the
manikin what he wanted, and for that
he once more spun the straw into gold.

And when the King came in the morning,
and found all as he had wished, he
took her in marriage, and the pretty
miller's daughter became a Queen.

A year after, she had a beautiful
child, and she never gave a thought to
the manikin. But suddenly he came
into her room, and said, "Now give me
what you promised."

The Queen was horror-struck, and
offered the manikin all the riches of
the kingdom if he would leave her the
child. But the manikin said, "No,
something that is living is dearer to me
than all the treasures in the world."

Then the Queen began to weep and
cry, so that the manikin pitied her. "I
will give you three days' time," said he;
"if by that time you find out my name,
then shall you keep your child."

So the Queen thought the whole night
of all the names that she had ever
heard, and she sent a messenger over
the country to inquire, far and wide,
for any other names that there might
be. When the manikin came the next
day, she began with Caspar, Melchior,
Balthazar, and said all the names she
knew, one after another; but to every
one the little man said, "That is not
my name." On the second day she had
inquiries made in the neighborhood as
to the names of the people there, and
she repeated to the manikin the most
uncommon and curious. "Perhaps your
name is Shortribs, or Sheepshanks, or
Laceleg?" but he always answered,
"That is not my name."

On the third day the messenger came
back again, and said, "I have not been
able to find a single new name, but as I
came to a high mountain at the end of
the forest, where the fox and the hare
bid each other good-night, there I saw
a little house, and before the house a
fire was burning, and round about the
fire quite a ridiculous little man was
jumping; he hopped upon one leg, and
shouted:

"To-day I bake, to-morrow brew,The next I'll have the young Queen's child.
Ha! glad am I that no one knewThat Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.'"

You may think how glad the Queen
was when she heard the name! And
when soon afterwards the little man
came in, and asked, "Now, Mistress
Queen, what is my name?"

"The devil has told you that! the devil
has told you that!" cried the little man,
and in his anger he plunged his right
foot so deep into the earth that his whole
leg went in; and then in rage he pulled
at his left leg so hard with both hands
that he tore himself in two.

Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm's
"Snow-White and Rose-Red" follows. It
has long been recognized as one of the most
beautiful and appealing of folk tales. The
scenic effects, the domestic life with its
maternal and filial affection, the kindness
to animals and helpfulness to each other
and to those in distress, the adventures with
dwarf and bear, the magic enchantment
of goodness through the power of evil, and
the happy conclusion following the removal
of this enchantment—all these are blended
into a perfect union that never fails to
delight the listener of any age.

SNOW-WHITE AND ROSE-RED

There was once a poor widow who
lived in a lonely cottage. In front of
the cottage was a garden wherein stood
two rose-trees, one of which bore white
and the other red roses. She had two
children who were like the two rose-trees,
and one was called Snow-white,
and the other Rose-red. They were as
good and happy, as busy and cheerful
as ever two children in the world were,
only Snow-white was more quiet and
gentle than Rose-red. Rose-red liked
better to run about in the meadows and
fields seeking flowers and catching butterflies;
but Snow-white sat at home with
her mother, and helped her with her
housework, or read to her when there
was nothing to do.

The two children were so fond of each
other that they always held each other
by the hand when they went out together,
and when Snow-white said, "We will
not leave each other," Rose-red answered,
"Never so long as we live," and their
mother would add, "What one has she
must share with the other."

They often ran about the forest alone
and gathered red berries, and no beasts
did them any harm, but came close to
them trustfully. The little hare would
eat a cabbage-leaf out of their hands,
the roe grazed by their side, the stag
leaped merrily by them, and the birds
sat still upon the boughs and sang
whatever they knew.

No mishap overtook them; if they
had stayed too late in the forest, and
night came on, they laid themselves down
near each other upon the moss and
slept until morning came, and their
mother knew this and had no distress
on their account.

Once when they had spent the night
in the wood and the dawn had roused
them, they saw a beautiful child in a
shining white dress sitting near their
bed. He got up and looked quite kindly
at them, but said nothing and went
away into the forest. And when they
looked round they found that they had
been sleeping quite close to a precipice,
and would certainly have fallen into
it in the darkness if they had gone
only a few paces farther. And their
mother told them that it must have
been the angel who watches over good
children.

Snow-white and Rose-red kept their
mother's little cottage so neat that it
was a pleasure to look inside it. In
the summer Rose-red took care of the
house, and every morning laid a wreath
of flowers by her mother's bed before
she awoke, in which was a rose from[147]
each tree. In the winter Snow-white
lit the fire and hung the kettle on the
crane. The kettle was of copper and
shone like gold, so brightly was it
polished. In the evening, when the
snowflakes fell, the mother said, "Go,
Snow-white, and bolt the door," and
then they sat round the hearth, and the
mother took her spectacles and read
aloud out of a large book, and the two
girls listened as they sat and spun.
And close by them lay a lamb upon the
floor, and behind them upon a perch
sat a white dove with its head hidden
beneath its wings.

One evening, as they were thus sitting
comfortably together, some one knocked
at the door as if he wished to be let in.
The mother said, "Quick, Rose-red,
open the door, it must be a traveler
who is seeking shelter." Rose-red went
and pushed back the bolt, thinking that
it was a poor man, but it was not; it
was a bear that stretched his broad,
black head within the door.

Rose-red screamed and sprang back,
the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered,
and Snow-white hid herself behind her
mother's bed. But the bear began to
speak and said, "Do not be afraid, I
will do you no harm! I am half-frozen,
and only want to warm myself a little
beside you."

"Poor bear," said the mother, "lie
down by the fire, only take care that
you do not burn your coat." Then she
cried, "Snow-white, Rose-red, come out;
the bear will do you no harm; he means
well." So they both came out, and
by-and-by the lamb and dove came
nearer, and were not afraid of him.

The bear said, "Here, children, knock
the snow out of my coat a little"; so
they brought the broom and swept the
bear's hide clean; and he stretched himself
by the fire and growled contentedly
and comfortably. It was not long before
they grew quite at home and played
tricks with their clumsy guest. They
tugged his hair with their hands, put
their feet upon his back and rolled him
about, or they took a hazel-switch and
beat him, and when he growled they
laughed. But the bear took it all in
good part, only when they were too
rough he called out, "Leave me alive,
children—

"Snowy-white, Rosy-red,
Will you beat your lover dead?"

When it was bed-time, and the others
went to bed, the mother said to the bear,
"You can lie there by the hearth, and
then you will be safe from the cold and
the bad weather." As soon as day
dawned the two children let him out,
and he trotted across the snow into
the forest.

Henceforth the bear came every evening
at the same time, laid himself down
by the hearth, and let the children amuse
themselves with him as much as they
liked; and they got so used to him that
the doors were never fastened until
their black friend had arrived.

When spring had come and all outside
was green, the bear said one morning
to Snow-white, "Now I must go away,
and cannot come back for the whole
summer."

"Where are you going, then, dear
bear?" asked Snow-white.

"I must go into the forest and guard
my treasures from the wicked dwarfs.
In the winter, when the earth is frozen
hard, they are obliged to stay below and
cannot work their way through; but
now, when the sun has thawed and[148]
warmed the earth, they break through
it, and come out to pry and steal; and
what once gets into their hands, and in
their caves, does not easily see daylight
again."

Snow-white was quite sorry for his
going away, and as she unbolted the
door for him, and the bear was hurrying
out, he caught against the bolt and a
piece of his hairy coat was torn off, and
it seemed to Snow-white as if she had
seen gold shining through it, but she
was not sure about it. The bear ran
away quickly, and was soon out of sight
behind the trees.

A short time afterwards the mother
sent her children into the forest to get
fire-wood. There they found a big tree
which lay felled on the ground, and close
by the trunk something was jumping
backwards and forwards in the grass,
but they could not make out what it
was. When they came nearer they saw
a dwarf with an old withered face and a
snow-white beard a yard long. The end
of the beard was caught in a crevice of
the tree, and the little fellow was jumping
backwards and forwards like a dog
tied to a rope, and did not know what
to do.

He glared at the girls with his fiery
red eyes and cried, "Why do you stand
there? Can you not come here and help
me?"

"What are you about there, little
man?" asked Rose-red.

"You stupid, prying goose!" answered
the dwarf; "I was going to split the
tree to get a little wood for cooking.
The little bit of food that one of us
wants gets burnt up directly with thick
logs; we do not swallow so much as
you coarse, greedy folk. I had just
driven the wedge safely in, and everything
was going as I wished; but the
wretched wood was too smooth and
suddenly sprang asunder, and the tree
closed so quickly that I could not pull
out my beautiful white beard; so now
it is tight in and I cannot get away,
and you silly, sleek, milk-faced things
laugh! Ugh! how odious you are!"

The children tried very hard, but they
could not pull the beard out, it was
caught too fast. "I will run and fetch
some one," said Rose-red.

"You senseless goose!" snarled the
dwarf; "why should you fetch some
one? You are already two too many
for me; can you not think of something
better?"

"Don't be impatient," said Snow-white,
"I will help you," and she pulled
her scissors out of her pocket, and cut
off the end of the beard.

As soon as the dwarf felt himself free
he laid hold of a bag which lay amongst
the roots of the tree, and which was
full of gold, and lifted it up, grumbling
to himself, "Uncouth people, to cut off
a piece of my fine beard. Bad luck to
you!" and then he swung the bag upon
his back, and went off without even
once looking at the children.

Some time after that Snow-white and
Rose-red went to catch a dish of fish.
As they came near the brook they saw
something like a large grasshopper jumping
towards the water, as if it were
going to leap in. They ran to it and
found it was the dwarf. "Where are
you going?" said Rose-red; "you surely
don't want to go into the water?"

"I am not such a fool!" cried the
dwarf; "don't you see that the accursed
fish wants to pull me in?"

The little man had been sitting there
fishing, and unluckily the wind had[149]
twisted his beard with the fishing line;
just then a big fish bit, and the feeble
creature had not strength to pull it out;
the fish kept the upper hand and pulled
the dwarf towards him. He held on to
all the reeds and rushes, but it was
of little good, he was forced to follow
the movements of the fish, and was in
urgent danger of being dragged into the
water.

The girls came just in time; they
held him fast and tried to free his
beard from the line, but all in vain,
beard and line were entangled fast
together. Nothing was left but to bring
out the scissors and cut the beard,
whereby a small part of it was lost.
When the dwarf saw that he screamed
out, "Is that civil, you toadstool, to
disfigure one's face? Was it not enough
to clip off the end of my beard? Now
you have cut off the best part of it.
I cannot let myself be seen by my
people. I wish you had been made to
run the soles off your shoes!" Then
he took out a sack of pearls which lay
in the rushes, and without saying a
word more he dragged it away and
disappeared behind a stone.

It happened that soon afterwards the
mother sent the two children to the
town to buy needles and thread, and
laces and ribbons. The road led them
across a heath upon which huge pieces
of rock lay strewn here and there. Now
they noticed a large bird hovering in
the air, flying slowly round and round
above them; it sank lower and lower,
and at last settled near a rock not far
off. Directly afterwards they heard a
loud, piteous cry. They ran up and
saw with horror that the eagle had
seized their old acquaintance the dwarf,
and was going to carry him off.

The children, full of pity, at once
took tight hold of the little man, and
pulled against the eagle so long that at
last he let his booty go. As soon as
the dwarf had recovered from his first
fright he cried with his shrill voice,
"Could you not have done it more
carefully? You dragged at my brown
coat so that it is all torn and full of
holes, you helpless, clumsy creatures!"
Then he took up a sack full of precious
stones, and slipped away again under
the rock into his hole. The girls, who
by this time were used to his thanklessness,
went on their way and did their
business in the town.

As they crossed the heath again on
their way home they surprised the
dwarf, who had emptied out his bag
of precious stones in a clean spot, and
had not thought that any one would
come there so late. The evening sun
shone upon the brilliant stones; they
glittered and sparkled with all colors so
beautifully that the children stood still
and looked at them. "Why do you
stand gaping there?" cried the dwarf,
and his ashen-gray face became copper-red
with rage. He was going on with
his bad words when a loud growling was
heard, and a black bear came trotting
towards them out of the forest. The
dwarf sprang up in a fright, but he
could not get to his cave, for the bear
was already close. Then in the dread
of his heart he cried, "Dear Mr. Bear,
spare me, I will give you all my treasures;
look, the beautiful jewels lying there!
Grant me my life; what do you want
with such a slender little fellow as I?
You would not feel me between your
teeth. Come, take these two wicked
girls, they are tender morsels for you,
fat as young quails; for mercy's sake[150]
eat them!" The bear took no heed of
his words, but gave the wicked creature
a single blow with his paw, and he did
not move again.

The girls had run away, but the bear
called to them, "Snow-white and Rose-red,
do not be afraid; wait, I will come
with you." Then they knew his voice
and waited, and when he came up to
them suddenly his bearskin fell off, and
he stood there a handsome man, clothed
all in gold. "I am a King's son," he
said, "and I was bewitched by that
wicked dwarf, who had stolen my treasures.
I have had to run about the
forest as a savage bear until I was freed
by his death. Now he has got his
well-deserved punishment."

Snow-white was married to him, and
Rose-red to his brother, and they divided
between them the great treasures which
the dwarf had gathered together in his
cave. The old mother lived peacefully
and happily with her children for many
years. She took the two rose-trees with
her, and they stood before her window,
and every year bore the most beautiful
roses, white and red.

Whether it is possible to trace all folk tales to
India, as some scholars have contended, is a
matter yet open to debate. But there can
be no doubt that some of the most instructing
and valuable of folk tales for use with
children are found in the various collections
of Indian stories made since the pioneer
work of Mary Frere in her Old Deccan
Days (1868). A voluminous literature of
collections and comment has grown up and
is constantly increasing. Four stories that
have won great favor with children are
given immediately following as the ones
probably best fitted for an introductory
course. "The Lambikin" is one of the
most popular of all. It is an accumulative
droll in character and should be told early
along with, say, "The Story of the Three
Little Pigs." The children will be sure to
notice that Lambikin trundling along in
his drumikin has some similarity to the wise
pig who traveled so fast down hill in his
new churn. The story is taken from Tales
from the Punjab, collected by Flora Annie
Steel, with very valuable notes and analyses
by Captain R. C. Temple.

THE LAMBIKIN

Once upon a time there was a wee wee
Lambikin, who frolicked about on his
little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself
amazingly. Now one day he set off to visit
his Granny, and was jumping with joy
to think of all the good things he should
get from her, when whom should he meet
but a Jackal, who looked at the tender
young morsel and said: "Lambikin!
Lambikin! I'll eat YOU!"

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk
and said:

"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."

The Jackal thought this reasonable,
and let Lambikin pass.

By and by he met a Vulture, and the
Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender
morsel before him, said: "Lambikin!
Lambikin! I'll eat YOU!"

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk,
and said:

"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."

The Vulture thought this reasonable,
and let Lambikin pass.

And by and by he met a Tiger, and then
a Wolf, and a Dog, and an Eagle, and
all these, when they saw the tender little[151]
morsel, said: "Lambikin! Lambikin!
I'll eat YOU!"

But to all of them Lambikin replied,
with a little frisk:

"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."

At last he reached his Granny's house,
and said, all in a great hurry, "Granny,
dear, I've promised to get very fat; so,
as people ought to keep their promises,
please put me into the corn-bin at once."

So his Granny said he was a good boy,
and put him into the corn-bin, and there
the greedy little Lambikin stayed for
seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate,
until he could scarcely waddle, and his
Granny said he was fat enough for anything,
and must go home. But cunning
little Lambikin said that would never do,
for some animal would be sure to eat him
on the way back, he was so plump and
tender.

"I'll tell you what you must do,"
said Master Lambikin, "you must make
a little drumikin out of the skin of my
little brother who died, and then I can
sit inside and trundle along nicely, for
I'm as tight as a drum myself."

So his Granny made a nice little drumikin
out of his brother's skin, with the
wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself
up snug and warm in the middle,
and trundled away gayly. Soon he met
with the Eagle, who called out:

"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"

And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his
soft warm nest, replied:

"Lost in the forest, and so are you,
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"

"How very annoying!" sighed the
Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender
morsel he had let slip.

The next story, dealing with the idea of
"measure for measure," is from Mary
Frere's Old Deccan Days. Miss Frere spent
many years in India, where her father was
a government official. She took down the
tales as told by her ayah, or lady's maid,
who in turn had heard them from her[152]
hundred-year-old grandmother. It may
be said of this story that while retaliation
is certainly not the highest law of conduct,
yet the ungracious, inconsiderate action
of the jackal makes it impossible to feel
the least sympathy for him.

TIT FOR TAT

There once lived a Camel and a Jackal
who were great friends. One day the
Jackal said to the Camel, "I know that
there is a fine field of sugar cane on the
other side of the river. If you will take
me across, I'll show you the place. This
plan will suit me as well as you. You
will enjoy eating the sugar cane, and I
am sure to find many crabs, bones, and
bits of fish by the river side, on which to
make a good dinner."

The Camel consented, and swam across
the river, taking the Jackal, who could
not swim, on his back. When they
reached the other side, the Camel went
to eat the sugar cane, and the Jackal ran
up and down the river bank, devouring
all the crabs, bits of fish, and bones he
could find.

But being so much smaller an animal,
he had made an excellent meal before the
Camel had eaten more than two or three
mouthfuls; and no sooner had he finished
his dinner than he ran round and round
the sugar-cane field, yelping and howling
with all his might.

The villagers heard him, and thought,
"There is a Jackal among the sugar canes;
he will be scratching holes in the ground
and spoiling the roots of the plants."
And they went down to the place to drive
him away. But when they got there they
found to their surprise not only a Jackal,
but a Camel who was eating the sugar
canes! This made them very angry, and
they caught the poor Camel and drove
him from the field and beat him until he
was nearly dead.

When the villagers had gone, the
Jackal said to the Camel, "We had better
go home." And the Camel, said, "Very
well; then jump upon my back, as you
did before."

So the Jackal jumped upon the Camel's
back, and the Camel began to recross the
river. When they had got well into the
water, the Camel said, "This is a pretty
way in which you have treated me,
friend Jackal. No sooner had you finished
your own dinner than you must
go yelping about the place loud enough to
arouse the whole village, and bring all
the villagers down to beat me black and
blue, and turn me out of the field before
I had eaten two mouthfuls! What in the
world did you make such a noise for?"

"I don't know," said the Jackal. "It
is a custom I have. I always like to sing
a little after dinner."

The Camel waded on through the river.
The water reached up to his knees—then
above them—up, up, up, higher and
higher, until at last he was obliged to
swim.

Then turning to the Jackal, he said,
"I feel very anxious to roll."

"Oh, pray don't; why do you wish to
do so?" asked the Jackal.

"I don't know," answered the Camel.
"It is a custom I have. I always like to
have a little roll after dinner."

So saying, he rolled over in the water,
shaking the Jackal off as he did so. And
the Jackal was drowned, but the Camel
swam safely ashore.

The fine story following is from Steel's Tales
of the Punjab. Scholars have pointed out
a hundred or more variants. Such trickery[153]
as that used by the jackal in trapping the
tiger is the common thing to find in folk
tales where oppressed weakness is matched
against ruthless and tyrannic power. The
tiger's ingratitude precludes any desire to
"take his part." The attitude of the three
judges is determined in each case by the
fact that the experience of each has hardened
him and rendered him completely
hopeless and unsympathetic. "The work of
the buffalo in the oil-press," says Captain
Temple, "is the synonym all India over—and
with good reason—for hard and thankless
toil for another's benefit."

THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN,
AND THE JACKAL

Once upon a time a tiger was caught in
a trap. He tried in vain to get out
through the bars, and rolled and bit with
rage and grief when he failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by.
"Let me out of this cage, O pious one!"
cried the tiger.

"Not at all!" swore the tiger with
many oaths; "on the contrary, I should
be forever grateful, and serve you as a
slave."

Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed
and wept and swore, the pious Brahman's
heart softened, and at last he consented
to open the door of the cage. Out
popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor
man, cried, "What a fool you are! What
is to prevent my eating you now, for after
being cooped up so long I am just terribly
hungry?"

In vain the Brahman pleaded for his
life; the most he could gain was a promise
to abide by the decision of the first three
things he chose to question as to the
justice of the tiger's action.

So the Brahman first asked a pipal
tree what it thought of the matter, but
the pipal tree replied coldly, "What have
you to complain about? Don't I give
shade and shelter to every one who passes
by, and don't they in return tear down
my branches to feed their cattle? Don't
whimper—be a man!"

Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went
further afield till he saw a buffalo turning
a well-wheel; but he fared no better from
it, for it answered: "You are a fool to
expect gratitude! Look at me! While I
gave milk they fed me on cotton-seed and
oil-cake, but now I am dry they yoke
me here, and give me refuse as fodder!"

The Brahman, still more sad, asked
the road to give him its opinion.

"My dear sir," said the road, "how
foolish you are to expect anything else!
Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all,
rich and poor, great and small, trample
on me as they go past, giving me nothing
but the ashes of their pipes and the husks
of their grain!"

On this the Brahman turned back
sorrowfully, and on the way he met a
jackal, who called out, "Why, what's the
matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as
miserable as a fish out of water!"

The Brahman told him all that had
occurred. "How very confusing!" said
the jackal, when the recital was ended;
"would you mind telling me over again,
for everything seems so mixed up?"

The Brahman told it all over again,
but the jackal shook his head in a distracted
sort of way, and still could not
understand.

"It's very odd," said he sadly, "but it
all seems to go in at one ear and out at
the other! I will go to the place where it
all happened, and then, perhaps, I shall
be able to give a judgment."[154]

So they returned to the cage, by
which the tiger was waiting for the
Brahman, and sharpening his teeth and
claws.

"You've been away a long time!"
growled the savage beast, "but now let
us begin our dinner."

"Our dinner!" thought the wretched
Brahman, as his knees knocked together
with fright; "what a remarkably delicate
way of putting it!"

"Give me five minutes, my lord!" he
pleaded, "in order that I may explain
matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat
slow in his wits."

The tiger consented, and the Brahman
began the whole story over again, not
missing a single detail, and spinning as
long a yarn as possible.

"Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor
brain!" cried the jackal, wringing its
paws. "Let me see! how did it all begin?
You were in the cage, and the tiger came
walking by—"

"Pooh!" interrupted the tiger, "what
a fool you are! I was in the cage."

"Of course!" cried the jackal, pretending
to tremble with fright; "yes! I
was in the cage—no, I wasn't—dear!
dear! where are my wits? Let me see—the
tiger was in the Brahman, and the
cage came walking by—no, that's not it,
either! Well, don't mind me, but begin
your dinner, for I shall never understand!"

"Yes, you shall!" returned the tiger,
in a rage at the jackal's stupidity; "I'll
make you understand! Look here—I
am the tiger—"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the Brahman—"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And that is the cage—"

"Yes, my lord!"

"And I was in the cage—do you understand?"

"Yes—no——Please, my lord—"

"Well?" cried the tiger impatiently.

"Please, my lord! How did you get
in?"

"How? Why in the usual way, of
course!"

"Oh, dear me! my head is beginning
to whirl again! Please don't be angry,
my lord, but what is the usual way?"

At this the tiger lost patience, and
jumping into the cage, cried, "This way!
Now do you understand how it was?"

"Perfectly!" grinned the jackal, as he
dexterously shut the door, "and if you
will permit me to say so, I think matters
will remain as they were!"

The story that follows is from Mrs. Kingscote's
Tales of the Sun, as reprinted in
Joseph Jacobs' Indian Fairy Tales. Mr.
Jacobs explains that he "changed the
Indian mercantile numerals into those of
English 'back-slang,' which make a very
good parallel." As in other cases, the
value of Jacobs' collection must be emphasized.
If the teacher is limited to a
single book for story material from the
Hindoos, that book must be the one made
by Joseph Jacobs. With well-chosen tales,
with the slight changes here and there
necessary for use with children, with just
enough scholarship packed out of the way
in the introduction and notes, the book has
no rival.

PRIDE GOETH BEFORE
A FALL

In a certain village there lived ten
cloth merchants, who always went about
together. Once upon a time they had
traveled far afield, and were returning
home with a great deal of money which[155]
they had obtained by selling their wares.
Now there happened to be a dense forest
near their village, and this they reached
early one morning. In it there lived
three notorious robbers, of whose existence
the traders had never heard, and
while they were still in the middle of it
the robbers stood before them, with
swords and cudgels in their hands, and
ordered them to lay down all they had.
The traders had no weapons with them,
and so, though they were many more in
number, they had to submit themselves
to the robbers, who took away everything
from them, even the very clothes they
wore, and gave to each only a small
loin-cloth a span in breadth and a cubit
in length.

The idea that they had conquered ten
men and plundered all their property
now took possession of the robbers'
minds. They seated themselves like
three monarchs before the men they had
plundered, and ordered them to dance to
them before returning home. The merchants
now mourned their fate. They
had lost all they had, except their loin-cloth,
and still the robbers were not
satisfied, but ordered them to dance.

There was among the ten merchants
one who was very clever. He pondered
over the calamity that had come upon
him and his friends, the dance they would
have to perform, and the magnificent
manner in which the three robbers had
seated themselves on the grass. At the
same time he observed that these last
had placed their weapons on the ground,
in the assurance of having thoroughly
cowed the traders, who were now commencing
to dance; and, as a song is always
sung by the leader on such occasions, to
which the rest keep time with hands and
feet, he thus began to sing:

"We are enty men,
They are erith men:
If each erith man,
Surround eno men
Eno man remains.

Tâ, tai tôm, tadingana."

The robbers were all uneducated, and
thought that the leader was merely singing
a song as usual. So it was in one
sense; for the leader commenced from a
distance, and had sung the song over
twice before he and his companions
commenced to approach the robbers.
They had understood his meaning, because
they had been trained in trade.

When two traders discuss the price of
an article in the presence of a purchaser,
they use a riddling sort of language.

"What is the price of this cloth?" one
trader will ask.

"Enty rupees," another will reply,
meaning "ten rupees."

Thus there is no possibility of the purchaser
knowing what is meant unless he
be acquainted with trade language. By
the rules of this secret language erith
means "three," enty means "ten," and
eno means "one." So the leader by his
song meant to hint to his fellow-traders
that they were ten men, the robbers only
three, that if three pounced upon each of
the robbers, nine of them could hold
them down, while the remaining one
bound the robbers' hands and feet.

The three thieves, glorying in their
victory, and little understanding the
meaning of the song and the intentions
of the dancers, were proudly seated
chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile
the song was sung a third time. Tâ tai
tôm had left the lips of the singer; and,
before tadingana was out of them, the
traders separated into parties of three,
and each party pounced upon a thief.[156]
The remaining one—the leader himself—tore
up into long narrow strips a large
piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied
the hands and feet of the robbers. These
were entirely humbled now, and rolled
on the ground like three bags of rice!

The ten traders now took back all
their property, and armed themselves
with the swords and cudgels of their
enemies; and when they reached their
village they often amused their friends
and relatives by relating their adventure.

In recent years several Japanese stories have
made their way into the list of those frequently
used in the lower grades. Some
of these are of unusual beauty and suggestiveness.
The oriental point of view is so
different from that of western children
that these stories often cannot be used in
their fully original form, although it would
be a distinct loss if the available elements
were therefore discarded. So, in this
instance departing from the plan of giving
only authentic copies of the tales here reprinted,
the excellent retold versions of two
Japanese stories are given as made by
Teresa Peirce Williston in her Japanese
Fairy Tales. (Copyrighted. Used by permission
of the publishers, Rand McNally
& Co.) In these simple versions the point
to the story is made clear in natural fashion
without undue moralizing.

THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA

VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON

In Matsuyama there lived a man,
his wife, and their little daughter. They
loved each other very much, and were
very happy together. One day the man
came home very sad. He had received
a message from the Emperor, which
said that he must take a journey to
far-off Tokio.

They had no horses and in those days
there were no railroads in Japan. The
man knew that he must walk the whole
distance. It was not the long walk that
he minded, however. It was because it
would take him many days from home.

Still he must obey his Emperor, so
he made ready to start. His wife was
very sorry that he must go, and yet a
little proud, too, for no one else in the
village had ever taken so long a journey.

She and the baby walked with him
down to the turn in the road. There
they stood and watched him through
their tears, as he followed the path up
through the pines on the mountain side.
At last, no larger than a speck, he disappeared
behind the hills. Then they
went home to await his return.

For three long weeks they waited.
Each day they spoke of him, and counted
the days until they should see his dear
face again. At last the time came.
They walked down to the turn in the
road to wait for his coming. Up on
the mountain side some one was walking
toward them. As he came nearer they
could see that it was the one for whom
they waited.

The good wife could scarcely believe
that her husband was indeed safe home
again. The baby girl laughed and
clapped her hands to see the toys he
brought her.

There was a tiny image of Uzume, the
laughter-loving goddess. Next came a
little red monkey of cotton, with a
blue head. When she pressed the spring
he ran to the top of the rod. Oh, how
wonderful was the third gift! It was
a tombo, or dragon fly. When she first
looked at it she saw only a piece of wood
shaped like a T. The cross piece was
painted with different bright colors.[157]
But the queer thing, when her father
twirled it between his fingers, would
rise in the air, dipping and hovering
like a real dragon fly.

Last, of course, there was a ninghio,
or doll, with a sweet face, slanting eyes,
and such wonderful hair. Her name
was O-Hina-San.

He told of the Feast of the Dead
which he had seen in Tokio. He told
of the beautiful lanterns, the Lanterns of
the Dead; and the pine torches burning
before each house. He told of the tiny
boats made of barley straw and filled
with food that are set floating away on
the river, bearing two tiny lanterns to
guide them to the Land of the Dead.

At last her husband handed the wife
a small white box. "Tell me what you
see inside," he said. She opened it and
took out something round and bright.

On one side were buds and flowers
of frosted silver. The other side at first
looked as clear and bright as a pool of
water. When she moved it a little she
saw in it a most beautiful woman.

"Oh, what a beautiful picture!" she
cried. "It is of a woman and she seems
to be smiling and talking just as I am.
She has on a blue dress just like mine,
too! How strange!"

Then her husband laughed and said:
"That is a mirror. It is yourself you
see reflected in it. All the women in
Tokio have them."

The wife was delighted with her
present, and looked at it very often.
She liked to see the smiling red lips, the
laughing eyes, and beautiful dark hair.

After a while she said to herself:
"How foolish this is of me to sit and
gaze at myself in this mirror! I am not
more beautiful than other women. How
much better for me to enjoy others'
beauty, and forget my own face. I
shall only remember that it must always
be happy and smiling or it will make
no one else happy. I do not wish any
cross or angry look of mine to make
any one sad."

She put the mirror carefully away in
its box. Only twice in a year she looked
at it. Then it was to see if her face
was still such as would make others
happy.

The years passed by in their sweet
and simple life until the baby had
grown to be a big girl. Her ninghio,
her tombo, the image of Uzume, even
the cotton monkey, were put carefully
away for her own children.

This girl was the very image of her
mother. She was just as sweet and
loving, just as kind and helpful.

One day her mother became very ill.
Although the girl and her father did all
they could for her, she grew worse and
worse.

At last she knew that she must die,
so she called her daughter to her and
said: "My child, I know that I must
soon leave you, but I wish to leave
something with you in my place. Open
this box and see what you find in it."

The girl opened the box and looked
for the first time in a mirror. "Oh,
mother dear!" she cried. "I see you
here. Not thin and pale as you are now,
but happy and smiling, as you have
always been."

Then her mother said: "When I am
gone, will you look in this every morning
and every night? If anything troubles
you, tell me about it. Always try to
do right, so that you will see only happiness
here."

Every morning when the sun rose and
the birds began to twitter and sing, the[158]
girl rose and looked in her mirror. There
she saw the bright, happy face that she
remembered as her mother's.

Every evening when the shadows fell
and the birds were asleep, she looked
again. She told it all that had happened
during the day. When it had been a
happy day the face smiled back at her.
When she was sad the face looked sad,
too. She was very careful not to do
anything unkind, for she knew how sad
the face would be then.

So each day she grew more kind and
loving, and more like the mother whose
face she saw each day and loved.

This favorite story of "The Tongue-Cut
Sparrow" is from Mrs. Williston's Japanese
Fairy Tales. (Copyrighted. Used by permission.)

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON

In a little old house in a little old
village in Japan lived a little old man
and his little old wife.

One morning when the old woman slid
open the screens which form the sides
of all Japanese houses, she saw, on the
doorstep, a poor little sparrow. She
took him up gently and fed him. Then
she held him in the bright morning
sunshine until the cold dew was dried
from his wings. Afterward she let him
go, so that he might fly home to his
nest, but he stayed to thank her with
his songs.

Each morning, when the pink on the
mountain tops told that the sun was
near, the sparrow perched on the roof
of the house and sang out his joy.

The old man and woman thanked the
sparrow for this, for they liked to be
up early and at work. But near them
there lived a cross old woman who did
not like to be awakened so early. At
last she became so angry that she caught
the sparrow and cut his tongue. Then
the poor little sparrow flew away to his
home, but he could never sing again.

When the kind woman knew what had
happened to her pet she was very sad.
She said to her husband, "Let us go and
find our poor little sparrow." So they
started together, and asked of each bird
by the wayside: "Do you know where
the Tongue-Cut Sparrow lives? Do you
know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow
went?"

In this way they followed until they
came to a bridge. They did not know
which way to turn, and at first could
see no one to ask.

At last they saw a Bat hanging head
downward, taking his daytime nap.
"Oh, friend Bat, do you know where
the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" they
asked.

"Yes. Over the bridge and up the
mountain," said the Bat. Then he
blinked his sleepy eyes and was fast
asleep again.

They went over the bridge and up the
mountain, but again they found two
roads and did not know which one to
take. A little Field Mouse peeped
through the leaves and grass, so they
asked him, "Do you know where the
Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?"

"Yes. Down the mountain and
through the woods," said the Field
Mouse.

Down the mountain and through the
woods they went, and at last came to
the home of their little friend.

When he saw them coming the poor
little sparrow was very happy indeed.[159]
He and his wife and children all came
and bowed their heads down to the
ground to show their respect. Then
the Sparrow rose and led the old
man and the old woman into his house,
while his wife and children hastened to
bring them boiled rice, fish, cress, and
saké.

After they had feasted, the Sparrow
wished to please them still more, so he
danced for them what is called the
"sparrow-dance."

When the sun began to sink, the old
man and woman started for home. The
Sparrow brought out two baskets. "I
would like to give you one of these,"
he said. "Which will you take?" One
basket was large and looked very full,
while the other one seemed very small
and light. The old people thought they
would not take the large basket, for
that might have all the Sparrow's treasure
in it, so they said, "The way is long
and we are very old, so please let us
take the smaller one."

They took it and walked home over
the mountain and across the bridge,
happy and contented.

When they reached their own home
they decided to open the basket and see
what the Sparrow had given them.
Within the basket they found many
rolls of silk and piles of gold, enough
to make them rich, so they were more
grateful than ever to the Sparrow.

The cross old woman who had cut the
Sparrow's tongue was peering in through
the screen when they opened their
basket. She saw the rolls of silk and
the piles of gold, and planned how she
might get some for herself.

The next morning she went to the
kind woman and said: "I am so sorry
that I cut the tongue of your Sparrow.
Please tell me the way to his home so
that I may go to him and tell him I
am sorry."

The kind woman told her the way
and she set out. She went across the
bridge, over the mountain, and through
the woods. At last she came to the
home of the little Sparrow.

He was not so glad to see this old
woman, yet he was very kind to her
and did everything to make her feel
welcome. They made a feast for her,
and when she started home the Sparrow
brought out two baskets as before. Of
course the woman chose the large basket,
for she thought that would have even
more wealth than the other one.

It was very heavy, and caught on
the trees as she was going through the
wood. She could hardly pull it up the
mountain with her, and she was all out
of breath when she reached the top.
She did not get to the bridge until it
was dark. Then she was so afraid of
dropping the basket into the river that
she scarcely dared to step.

When at last she reached home she
was so tired that she was half dead, but
she pulled the screens close shut, so that
no one could look in, and opened her
treasure.

Treasure indeed! A whole swarm of
horrible creatures burst from the basket
the moment she opened it. They stung
her and bit her, they pushed her and
pulled her, they scratched her and
laughed at her screams.

At last she crawled to the edge of the
room and slid aside the screen to get
away from the pests. The moment the
door was opened they swooped down
upon her, picked her up, and flew away
with her. Since then nothing has ever
been heard of the old woman[160].

The tale of "The Straw Ox" as given in
Cossack Fairy Tales, by R. Nesbit Bain, is
one of the masterpieces among folk stories.
It is of the accumulative type, winding up
rapidly to the point where the old couple
have secured, through the straw ox, all
the raw material needed for comfortable
clothing. Then comes the surprising release
of the captured animals under promise
to make contributions, each in his own
way, to the welfare of the poverty-stricken
couple. And then, the greatest surprise of
all, the quick unwinding of the plot with
the return of the grateful animals according
to promise. "And the old man was glad,
and the old woman was glad," and we are
glad for their sake, and also for the sake
of the bear and the wolf and the fox and
the hare.

THE STRAW OX

There was once upon a time an old
man and an old woman. The old man
worked in the fields as a pitch-burner,
while the old woman sat at home and
spun flax. They were so poor that
they could save nothing at all; all their
earnings went in bare food, and when
that was gone there was nothing left.
At last the old woman had a good idea:
"Look now, husband," cried she, "make
me a straw ox, and smear it all over
with tar."

"Why, you foolish woman!" said he,
"what's the good of an ox of that sort?"

"Never mind," said she, "you just
make it. I know what I am about."

What was the poor man to do? He
set to work and made the ox of straw,
and smeared it all over with tar.

The night passed away, and at early
dawn the old woman took her distaff, and
drove the straw ox out into the steppe
to graze, and she herself sat down
behind a hillock, and began spinning
her flax, and cried: "Graze away, little
ox, while I spin my flax. Graze away,
little ox, while I spin my flax!"

And while she spun, her head drooped
down and she began to doze, and while
she was dozing, from behind the dark
wood and from the back of the huge
pines a bear came rushing out upon the
ox and said: "Who are you? Speak,
and tell me!"

And the ox said: "A three-year-old
heifer am I, made of straw and smeared
with tar."

"Oh!" said the bear, "stuffed with
straw and trimmed with tar, are you?
Then give me your straw and tar, that
I may patch up my ragged fur again!"

"Take some," said the ox, and the
bear fell upon him and began to tear
away at the tar.

He tore and tore, and buried his
teeth in it till he found he couldn't
let go again. He tugged and he tugged
but it was no good, and the ox dragged
him gradually off, goodness knows where.

Then the old woman awoke, and there
was no ox to be seen. "Alas! old fool
that I am!" cried she, "perchance it
has gone home." Then she quickly
caught up her distaff and spinning board,
threw them over her shoulders, and
hastened off home, and she saw that
the ox had dragged the bear up to the
fence, and in she went to her old man.

"Dad, dad," she cried, "look, look!
The ox has brought us a bear. Come
out and kill it!" Then the old man
jumped up, tore off the bear, tied him
up, and threw him in the cellar.

Next morning, between dark and dawn,
the old woman took her distaff and
drove the ox into the steppe to graze.
She herself sat down by a mound, began
spinning, and said: "Graze, graze away,[161]
little ox, while I spin my flax! Graze,
graze away, little ox, while I spin my
flax!"

And while she spun, her head drooped
down and she dozed. And lo! from
behind the dark wood, from the back
of the huge pines, a gray wolf came
rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who
are you? Come, tell me!"

"I am a three-year-old heifer, stuffed
with straw and trimmed with tar," said
the ox.

"Oh! trimmed with tar, are you?
Then give me of your tar to tar my
sides, that the dogs and the sons of
dogs tear me not!"

"Take some," said the ox. And with
that the wolf fell upon him and tried
to tear the tar off. He tugged and
tugged, and tore with his teeth, but
could get none off. Then he tried to
let go, and couldn't; tug and worry as
he might, it was no good.

When the old woman woke, there was
no heifer in sight. "Maybe my heifer
has gone home!" she cried. "I'll go
home and see." When she got there she
was astonished for by the paling stood
the ox with the wolf still tugging at it.
She ran and told her old man, and her
old man came and threw the wolf into
the cellar also.

On the third day the old woman
again drove her ox into the pastures
to graze, and sat down by a mound and
dozed off. Then a fox came running up.
"Who are you?" it asked the ox.

"I'm a three-year-old heifer, stuffed
with straw and daubed with tar."

"Then give me some of your tar to
smear my sides with, when those dogs
and sons of dogs tear my hide!"

"Take some," said the ox. Then the
fox fastened her teeth in him and couldn't
draw them out again. The old woman
told her old man, and he took and cast
the fox into the cellar in the same way.
And after that they caught Pussy Swiftfoot
likewise.

So when he had got them all safely
the old man sat down on a bench before
the cellar and began sharpening a knife.
And the bear said to him: "Tell me,
daddy, what are you sharpening your
knife for?"

"To flay your skin off, that I may
make a leather jacket for myself and a
pelisse for my old woman."

The hare now alone remained, and
the old man began sharpening his knife
on the hare's account.

"Why do you do that?" asked Puss.
He replied: "Little hares have nice
little, soft, warm skins, which will make
me nice gloves and mittens against the
winter!"

"Oh! daddy dear! Don't flay me,
and I'll bring you kale and good cauliflower,
if only you let me go!"

Then he let the hare go also.

Then they went to bed; but very
early in the morning, when it was
neither dusk nor dawn, there was a
noise in the doorway like "Durrrrrr!"

"Daddy!" cried the old woman,
"there's some one scratching at the
door; go and see who it is!"

The old man went out, and there
was the bear carrying a whole hive full
of honey. The old man took the honey
from the bear; but no sooner did he lie
down again than there was another
"Durrrrr!" at the door. The old man
looked out and saw the wolf driving a
whole flock of sheep into the court-yard.
Close on his heels came the fox,
driving before him the geese and hens,
and all manner of fowls; and last of all
came the hare, bringing cabbage and
kale, and all manner of good food.

And the old man was glad, and the
old woman was glad. And the old man
sold the sheep and oxen, and got so rich
that he needed nothing more.

As for the straw-stuffed ox, it stood
in the sun till it fell to pieces.

"The Adventures of Connla the Comely" is
one of the romances in The Book of the
Dun Cow, the oldest manuscript of miscellaneous
Gaelic literature in existence.
It was made about 1100 a.d. and is now
preserved in the Royal Irish Academy at
Dublin. The contents were transcribed
from older books, some of the stories being
older by many centuries. The story of
Connla is "one of the many tales that illustrate
the ancient and widespread superstition
that fairies sometimes take away mortals
to their palaces in the fairy forts and
pleasant green hills." This conception is
often referred to as the Earthly Paradise
or the Isle of Youth. It is represented in
the King Arthur stories by the Vale of
Avalon to which the weeping queens carried
the king after his mortal wound in
"that last weird battle in the west." Conn
the Hundred-fighter reigned in the second
century of the Christian era (123-157 a.d.),
and this story of his son must have sprung
up soon after. According to Jacobs, it is
the oldest fairy tale of modern Europe.

The following version of the tale is from
Joseph Jacobs' Celtic Fairy Tales, which
with its companion volume, More Celtic
Fairy Tales, forms a standard source book
for the usable stories in that field. Mr.
Jacobs, as always, keeps to the authoritative
versions while reducing them to forms
at once available for educational purposes.

CONNLA AND THE FAIRY
MAIDEN

Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of
Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day
as he stood by the side of his father on
the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad
in strange attire towards him coming.

"Whence comest thou, maiden?" said
Connla.

"I come from the Plains of the Ever
Living," she said, "there where is neither
death nor sin. There we keep holiday
alway, nor need we help from any in our
joy. And in all our pleasure we have no
strife. And because we have our homes
in the round green hills, men call us the
Hill Folk."[163]

The king and all with him wondered
much to hear a voice when they saw no
one. For save Connla alone, none saw
the Fairy Maiden.

"To whom art thou talking, my son?"
said Conn the king.

Then the maiden answered, "Connla
speaks to a young, fair maid, whom
neither death nor old age awaits. I love
Connla, and now I call him away to the
Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where
Boadag is king for aye, nor has there
been sorrow or complaint in that land
since he held the kingship. Oh, come
with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy
as the dawn, with thy tawny skin. A
fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy
comely face and royal form. Come, and
never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy
youth, till the last awful day of judgment."

The king in fear at what the maiden
said, which he heard though he could not
see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran
by name. "O Coran of the many
spells," he said, "and of the cunning
magic, I call upon thy aid. A task is
upon me too great for all my skill and
wit, greater than any laid upon me since
I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen
has met us, and by her power would
take from me my dear, my comely son.
If thou help not, he will be taken from thy
king by woman's wiles and witchery."

Then Coran the Druid stood forth and
chanted his spells towards the spot where
the maiden's voice had been heard. And
none heard her voice again, nor could
Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished
before the Druid's mighty spell, she
threw an apple to Connla.

For a whole month from that day
Connla would take nothing, either to eat
or to drink, save only from that apple.

But as he ate, it grew again and always
kept whole. And all the while there
grew within him a mighty yearning and
longing after the maiden he had seen.

But when the last day of the month of
waiting came, Connla stood by the side
of the king his father on the Plain of
Arcomin, and again he saw the maiden
come towards him, and again she spoke
to him. "'Tis a glorious place, forsooth,
that Connla holds among shortlived
mortals awaiting the day of death. But
now the folk of life, the ever-living ones,
beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the
Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to
know thee, seeing thee in thy home
among thy dear ones."

When Conn the king heard the
maiden's voice he called to his men
aloud and said: "Summon swift my
Druid Coran, for I see she has again this
day the power of speech."

Then the maiden said: "O mighty
Conn, Fighter of a Hundred Fights, the
Druid's power is little loved; it has little
honor in the mighty land, peopled with
so many of the upright. When the Law
comes, it will do away with the Druid's
magic spells that issue from the lips of the
false black demon."

Then Conn the king observed that since
the coming of the maiden Connla his son
spoke to none that spake to him. So
Conn of the Hundred Fights said to him,
"Is it to thy mind what the woman says,
my son?"

"'Tis hard upon me," said Connla;
"I love my own folk above all things; but
yet a longing seizes me for the maiden."

When the maiden heard this, she
answered and said: "The ocean is not
so strong as the waves of thy longing.
Come with me in my curragh, the gleaming,
straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon[164]
can we reach Boadag's realm. I see the
bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can
reach it before dark. There is, too,
another land worthy of thy journey, a
land joyous to all that seek it. Only
wives and maidens dwell there. If thou
wilt, we can seek it and live there alone
together in joy."

When the maiden ceased to speak,
Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away
from his kinsmen and sprang into the
curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding
crystal canoe. And then they all, king
and court, saw it glide away over the
bright sea towards the setting sun, away
and away, till eye could see it no longer.
So Connla and the Fairy Maiden went
forth on the sea, and were no more seen,
nor did any know whither they went.

One of the best of the volumes of Irish tales
is Lady Wilde's Ancient Legends of Ireland,
and one of the best stories in that volume
is her version of the witch story of "The
Horned Women." The story is compact
and restrained in the telling, and carries
effectively to the listener the "creepy"
spell of the witches. The way in which
the house was prepared against the enchantments
of the returning witches furnishes
a good illustration of some of the deep-seated
superstitions of the folk.

THE HORNED WOMEN

A rich woman sat up late one night
carding and preparing wool, while all
the family and servants were asleep.
Suddenly a knock was given at the door,
and a voice called, "Open! Open!"

"Who is there?" said the woman of
the house.

"I am the Witch of the one Horn,"
was answered.

The mistress, supposing that one of
her neighbors had called and required
assistance, opened the door, and a woman
entered, having in her hand a pair of
wool carders, and bearing a horn on her
forehead, as if growing there. She sat
down by the fire in silence, and began
to card the wool with violent haste.
Suddenly she paused, and said aloud:
"Where are the women; they delay
too long."

Then a second knock came to the
door, and a voice called as before,
"Open! Open!"

The mistress felt herself constrained
to rise and open to the call, and immediately
a second witch entered, having
two horns on her forehead, and in her
hand a wheel for spinning wool.

"Give me place," she said, "I am the
Witch of the two Horns"; and she
began to spin as quick as lightning.

And so the knocks went on, and the
call was heard, and the witches entered,
until at last, twelve women sat round
the fire—the first with one horn, the
last with twelve horns.

And they carded the thread, and turned
their spinning wheels, and wound and
wove.

All were singing together an ancient
rhyme, but no word did they speak to
the mistress of the house. Strange to
hear and frightful to look upon were
these twelve women, with their horns
and their wheels; and the mistress felt
near to death, and she tried to rise that
she might call for help, but she could
not move, nor could she utter a word or
a cry, for the spell of the witches was
upon her.

Then one of them called to her in
Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and make
us a cake." Then the mistress searched
for a vessel to bring water from the well[165]
that she might mix the meal and make
the cake, but she could find none.

And they said to her, "Take a sieve,
and bring water in it." And she took
the sieve and went to the well; but the
water poured from it, and she could
fetch none for the cake, and she sat
down by the well and wept.

Then came a voice by her, and said,
"Take yellow clay and moss and bind
them together, and plaster the sieve so
that it will hold."

This she did, and the sieve held the
water for the cake; and the voice said
again: "Return, and when thou comest
to the north angle of the house cry
aloud three times, and say, 'The mountain
of the Fenian women and the sky
over it is all on fire.'"

And she did so.

When the witches inside heard the call,
a great and terrible cry broke from their
lips, and they rushed forth with wild
lamentations and shrieks, and fled away
to Slievenamon, where was their chief
abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade
the mistress of the house to enter and
prepare her home against the enchantments
of the witches, if they returned
again.

And first, to break their spells, she
sprinkled the water in which she had
washed her child's feet (the feet-water)
outside the door on the threshold;
secondly, she took the cake which the
witches had made in her absence, of
meal mixed with the blood drawn from
the sleeping family, and she broke the
cake in bits, and placed a bit in the
mouth of each sleeper, and they were
restored; and she took the cloth they
had woven, and placed it half in and
half out of the chest with the padlock;
and, lastly, she secured the door with a
great crossbeam fastened in the jambs,
so that they could not enter, and having
done these things she waited.

Not long were the witches in coming,
and they raged and called for vengeance.

"Open! Open!" they screamed.
"Open, feet-water!"

"I cannot," said the feet-water; "I
am scattered on the ground, and my
path is down to the Lough."

"Open, open, wood and trees and
beam!" they cried to the door.

"I cannot," said the door, "for the
beam is fixed in the jambs, and I have
no power to move."

"Open, open, cake that we have made
and mingled with blood!" they cried
again.

"I cannot," said the cake, "for I am
broken and bruised, and my blood is
on the lips of the sleeping children."

Then the witches rushed through the
air with great cries, and fled back to
Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on
the Spirit of the Well, who had wished
their ruin. But the woman and the
house were left in peace, and a mantle
dropped by one of the witches was kept
hung up by the mistress as a sign of the
night's awful contest; and this mantle
was in possession of the same family
from generation to generation for five
hundred years after.

The story of "King O'Toole and His Goose"
is from Samuel Lover's Stories and Legends
of the Irish Peasantry, as reprinted in
slightly abridged form in William Butler
Yeats's Irish Fairy Tales. The extreme
form of the dialect is kept as in the original,
since the humor is largely dependent on
the language of the peasant who tells the
story. It will serve as a good illustration[166]
for practice work for the amateur story-teller.
Probably most teachers would find
it necessary to "reduce" this dialect or to
eliminate it altogether. Mr. Jacobs, who
includes this story in his Celtic Fairy Tales,
reduces the dialect very materially, keeping
just enough to remind one that it is Irish.
He also says the final word as to the moral
of the story: "This is a moral apologue
on the benefits of keeping your word. Yet
it is told with such humor and vigor, that
the moral glides insensibly into the
heart."

KING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE

"By Gor, I thought all the world, far
and near, heerd o' King O'Toole—well,
well, but the darkness of mankind is
ontellible! Well, sir, you must know,
as you didn't hear it afore, that there
was a king, called King O'Toole, who
was a fine ould king in the ould ancient
times, long ago; and it was him that
owned the churches in the early days.
The king, you see, was the right sort;
he was the rale boy, and loved sport as
he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar;
and from the risin' o' the sun, up he
got, and away he wint over the mountains
beyant afther the deer; and the
fine times them wor.

"Well, it was all mighty good, as
long as the king had his health; but,
you see, in coorse of time the king grew
ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs,
and when he got sthriken in years, his
heart failed him, and he was lost intirely
for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't
go a huntin' no longer; and, by dad,
the poor king was obleeged at last for
to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you
may laugh, if you like, but it's truth
I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose
divarted him was this-a-way: You see,
the goose used for to swim across the
lake, and go divin' for throut, and cotch
fish on a Friday for the king, and flew
every other day round about the lake,
divartin' the poor king. All went on
mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose
got sthriken in years like her master,
and couldn't divart him no longer, and
then it was that the poor king was lost
complate. The king was walkin' one
mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin'
his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin'
himself, that could get no divarshun in
life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round
the corner beyant, who should he meet
but a mighty dacent young man comin'
up to him.

"You see it was Saint Kavin, sure
enough—the saint himself in disguise,
and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,'
says he, 'I know more than that. May
I make bowld to ax how is your goose,
King O'Toole?' says he. 'Bluran-agers,
how kem ye to know about my goose?'
says the king. 'Oh, no matther; I was
given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin.
After some more talk the king says,
'What are you?' 'I'm an honest man,'
says Saint Kavin. 'Well, honest man,'
says the king, 'and how is it you make
your money so aisy?' 'By makin' ould
things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin.
'Is it a tinker you are?' says the king.
'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by
thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther
thrade than a tinker,' says he—'what[167]
would you say,' says he, 'if I made your
ould goose as good as new?'

"My dear, at the word o' makin' his
goose as good as new, you'd think the
poor ould king's eyes was ready to
jump out iv his head. With that the
king whistled, and down kem the poor
goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin'
up to the poor cripple, her masther, and
as like him as two pays. The minute
the saint clapt his eyes on the goose,
'I'll do the job for you,' says he, 'King
O'Toole.' 'By Jaminee!' says King
O'Toole, 'if you do, but I'll say you're
the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.'
'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must
say more nor that—my horn's not so
soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your
ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi'
me if I do the job for you?—that's the
chat,' says Saint Kavin. 'I'll give you
whatever you ax,' says the king; 'isn't
that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the
saint; 'that's the way to do business.
Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll
make with you, King O'Toole: will
you gi' me all the ground the goose
flies over, the first offer, afther I make
her as good as new?' 'I will,' says the
king, 'You won't go back o' your
word?' says Saint Kavin. 'Honor bright!'
says King O'Toole, howldin' out his
fist. 'Honor bright!' says Saint Kavin,
back agin, 'it's a bargain. Come here!'
says he to the poor ould goose—'come
here, you unfort'nate ould cripple, and
it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.'
With that, my dear, he took up the goose
by the two wings—'Criss o' my crass
and you,' says he, markin' her to grace
with the blessed sign at the same minute—and
throwin' her up in the air, 'whew,'
says he, jist givin' her a blast to help
her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk
to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles
themselves and cuttin' as many capers
as a swallow before a shower of rain.

"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful
sight to see the king standin' with his
mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould
goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther
nor ever she was: and when she lit at
his fut, patter her an the head, and,
'Ma vourneen,' says he, 'but you are
the darlint o' the world.' 'And what
do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin,
'for makin' her the like?' 'By gor,'
says the king, 'I say nothin' bates the
art o' man, barrin' the bees.' 'And do
you say no more nor that?' says Saint
Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to
you,' says the king. 'But will you give
me all the ground the goose flew over?'
says Saint Kavin. 'I will,' says King
O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says
he, 'though it's the last acre I have to
give.' 'But you'll keep your word
thrue?' says the saint. 'As thrue as
the sun,' says the king. 'It's well for
you, King O'Toole, that you said that
word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say
that word, the devil receave the bit o' your
goose id ever fly agin.'

"Whin the king was as good as his
word, Saint Kavin was plazed with him,
and thin it was that he made himself
known to the king. 'And,' says he,
'King O'Toole, you're a dacent man,
for I only kem here to thry you. You
don't know me,' says he, 'bekase I'm
disguised.' 'Musha! thin,' says the king,
'who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,'
said the Saint, blessin' himself. 'Oh,
queen iv heaven!' says the king makin'
the sign o' the crass betune his eyes,
and fallin' down on his knees before the
saint; 'is it the great Saint Kavin,'
says he, 'that I've been discoorsin' all[168]
this time without knowin' it,' says he,
'all as one as if he was a lump iv a gosson?—and
so you're a saint?' says the king.
'I am,' says Saint Kavin. 'By gor, I
thought I was only talking to a dacent
boy,' says the king. 'Well, you know
the differ now,' says the saint. 'I'm
Saint Kavin,' says he, 'the greatest of
all the saints.'

"And so the king had his goose as
good as new, to divart him as long as
he lived: and the saint supported him
afther he kem into his property, as I
tould you, until the day iv his death—and
that was soon afther; for the poor
goose thought he was ketchin' a throut
one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a
mistake he made—and instead of a
throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel; and
by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a
throut for the king's supper,—by dad,
the eel killed the king's goose—and
small blame to him; but he didn't
ate her, bekase he darn't ate what
Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands
on."

SECTION IV: FAIRY STORIES—MODERN FANTASTIC TALES

INTRODUCTORY

The difficulties of classification are very apparent here, and once more it must
be noted that illustrative and practical purposes rather than logical ones are served
by the arrangement adopted. The modern fanciful story is here placed next to the
real folk story instead of after all the groups of folk products. The Hebrew stories
at the beginning belong quite as well, perhaps even better, in Section V, while the
stories at the end of Section VI shade off into the more modern types of short tales.
Then the fact that other groups of modern stories are to follow later, illustrating
more realistic studies of life and the very recent and remarkably numerous writings
centering around animal life, limits the list here. Many of the animal stories might,
with equal propriety, be placed under the head of the fantastic.

The child's natural literature. The world has lost certain secrets as the price
of an advancing civilization. It is a commonplace of observation that no one can
duplicate the success of Mother Goose, whether she be thought of as the maker of
jingles or the teller of tales. The conditions of modern life preclude the generally
naïve attitude that produced the folk rhymes, ballads, tales, proverbs, fables, and
myths. The folk saw things simply and directly. The complex, analytic, questioning
mind is not yet, either in or out of stories. The motives from which people act
are to them plain and not mixed. Characters are good or bad. They feel no need
of elaborately explaining their joys and sorrows. Such experiences come with the
day's work. "To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." The zest of life with
them is emphatic. Their humor is fresh, unbounded, sincere; there is no trace of
cynicism. In folk literature we do not feel the presence of a "writer" who is mightily
concerned about maintaining his reputation for wisdom, originality, or style. Hence
the freedom from any note of straining after effect, of artificiality. In the midst of a
life limited to fundamental needs, their literature deals with fundamentals. On the
whole, it was a literature for entertainment. A more learned upper class may have
concerned itself then about "problems" and "purposes," as the whole world does
now, but the literature of the folk had no such interests.

Without discussing the limits of the culture-epoch theory of human development
as a complete guide in education, it is clear that the young child passes through a
period when his mind looks out upon the world in a manner analogous to that of the
folk as expressed in their literature. Quarrel with the fact as we may, it still remains
a fact that his nature craves these old stories and will not be satisfied with something
"just as good."

The modern fairy story. The advance of civilization has been accompanied by
a wistful longing for the simplicities left by the way. In some periods this interest
in the past has been more marked than in others. When the machinery of life has
weighed too heavily on the human spirit, men have turned for relief to a contemplation
of the "good old times" and have preached crusades of a "return to nature."[172]
Many modern writers have tried to recapture some of the power of the folk tale by
imitating its method. In many cases they have had a fair degree of success: in one
case, that of Hans Christian Andersen, the success is admittedly very complete. As
a rule, however, the sharpness of the sense of wonder has been blunted, and many
imitators of the old fairy tale succeed in keeping only the shell. Another class of
modern fantastic tale is that of the pourquoi story, which has the explanation of something
as its object. Such tales grow out of the attempt to use the charm of old stories
as a means of conveying instruction, somewhat after the method of those parents
who covered up our bitter medicine with some of our favorite jam. Even "Little
Red Riding Hood," as we saw, has been turned into a flower myth. So compelling
is this pedagogical motive that so-called nature myths have been invented or made
from existing stories in great numbers. The practical results please many teachers,
but it may be questioned whether the gain is sufficient to compensate children for
the distorting results upon masterpieces.

Wide range of the modern fairy tale. The bibliography will suggest something
of the treasures in the field of the modern fanciful story. From the delightful nonsense
of Alice in Wonderland and the "travelers' tales" of Baron Munchausen to the
profound seriousness of The King of the Golden River and Why the Chimes Rang is a
far cry. There are the rich fancies of Barrie and Maeterlinck, at the same time
delicate as the promises of spring and brilliant as the fruitions of summer. One may
be blown away to the land of Oz, he may lose his shadow with Peter Schlemihl, he
may outdo the magic carpet with his Traveling-Cloak, he may visit the courts of
kings with his Wonderful Chair; Miss Muffet will invite us to her Christmas party,
Lemuel Gulliver will lead us to lands not marked in the school atlas; on every side
is a world of wonder.

Some qualities of these modern tales. Every age produces after its own fashion,
and we must expect to find the modern user of the fairy-story method expressing
through it the qualities of his own outlook upon the world. Interest in the picturesque
aspects of landscape will be emphasized, as in the early portions of "The
Story of Fairyfoot" and, with especial magnificence of style, throughout The King
of the Golden River. There will appear the saddened mood of the modern in the
face of the human miseries that make happiness a mockery, as in "The Happy
Prince." The destructive effects of the possessive instinct upon all that is finest
in human nature is reflected in "The Prince's Dream." That the most valuable
efforts are often those performed with least spectacular settings may be discerned
in "The Knights of the Silver Shield," while the lesson of kindly helpfulness is the
burden of "Old Pipes and the Dryad." In many modern stories the reader is too
much aware of the conscious efforts of style and structure. The thoughtful child
will sometimes be too much distressed by the more somber modern story, and should
not hear too many of the gloomy type.

Andersen the consummate master. Hans Christian Andersen is the acknowledged
master of the modern story for children. What are the sources of his success? Genius
is always unexplainable except in terms of itself, but some things are clear. To
begin, he makes a mark—drives down a peg: "There came a soldier marching along[173]
the high road—one, two! one, two!" and you are off. No backing and filling, no
jockeying for position, no elaborate setting of the stage. The story's the thing!
Next, the language is the language of common oral speech, free and unrestrained.
The rigid forms of the grammar are eschewed. There is no beating around the bush.
Seeing through the eyes of the child, he uses the language that is natural to such sight:
"Aha! there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels." In quick dramatic fashion
the story unrolls before your vision: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There
she lay!" No agonizing over the cruelty of it, the lack of sympathy. It is a joke
after the child's own heart, and with a hearty laugh at this end to an impostor, the
listener is on with the story. The logic is the logic of childhood: "And everyone
could see she was a real princess, for she was so lovely." When Andersen deals with
some of the deeper truths of existence, as in "The Nightingale" or "The Ugly Duckling,"
he still manages to throw it all into the form that is natural and convincing
and simple to the child. He never mounts a pedestal and becomes a grown-up philosopher.
Perhaps Andersen's secret lay in the fact that some fairy godmother invested
him at birth with a power to see things so completely as a child sees them that he
never questioned the dignity of the method. In few of his stories is there any evidence
of a constraint due to a conscious attempt to write down to the understandings of
children.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

The most valuable discussion of the difficulties to be mastered in writing the literary fairy
tale, and the story of the only very complete mastery yet made, will be found in the account of Hans
Christian Andersen in Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century, by Georg Brandes. Now and
then hints of importance on such stories and their value for children may be found in biographies
of the more prominent writers represented in the section and mentioned in the bibliography, and
in magazine articles and reviews. These latter may be located by use of the periodical indexes
found in most libraries. For the proper attitude which the schools should have toward fiction and
fanciful writing in general, nothing could be better than two lectures on "Children's Reading," in
On the Art of Reading, by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.

The rabbis of old were good story-tellers.
They were essentially teachers and they
understood that the best sermon is a
story. "They were fond of the parable,
the anecdote, the apt illustration, and their
legends that have been transmitted to us,
all aglow with the light and life of the
Orient, possess perennial charm." It is
possible to find in rabbinical sources a
large number of brief stories that have the
power of entertaining as well as of emphasizing
some qualities of character that are
important in all ages. The plan of this
book does not include the wonderful stories
of the Old Testament, which are easy of
access to any teacher and may be used as
experience directs. The Hebrew stories
following correspond very nearly to the
folk anecdote and are placed in this section
because of their literary form.

Dr. Abram S. Isaacs (1851—) is a professor
in New York University and is also a rabbi.
The selection that follows is from his
Stories from the Rabbis. (Copyrighted.
Used by special permission of The Bloch
Publishing Company, New York.) Taking
advantage of the popular superstition that
a four-leaved clover is a sign of good luck,
Dr. Isaacs has grouped together four
parable-like stories, each of which deals
with wealth as a subject. The editors are
responsible for the special titles given.
The messages of these stories might be
summarized as follows: If you would be
lucky, (1) be honest because it is right to
be honest, (2) value good friends more
highly than gold, (3) let love accompany
each gift of charity, and (4) use common
sense in your business ventures.

A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER

ABRAM S. ISAACS

1. The Rabbi and The Diadem

Great was the alarm in the palace of
Rome, which soon spread throughout
the entire city. The Empress had lost
her costly diadem, and it could not be
found. They searched in every direction,
but it was all in vain. Half distracted,
for the mishap boded no good to
her or her house, the Empress redoubled
her exertions to regain her precious
possession, but without result. As a
last resource it was proclaimed in the
public streets:

"The Empress has lost a priceless
diadem. Whoever restores it within
thirty days shall receive a princely
reward. But he who delays, and brings
it after thirty days, shall lose his head."

In those times all nationalities flocked
toward Rome; all classes and creeds
could be met in its stately halls and
crowded thoroughfares. Among the rest
was a rabbi, a learnèd sage from the
East, who loved goodness and lived a
righteous life, in the stir and turmoil
of the Western world. It chanced one
night as he was strolling up and down,
in busy meditation, beneath the clear,
moonlit sky, he saw the diadem sparkling
at his feet. He seized it quickly,
brought it to his dwelling, where he
guarded it carefully until the thirty
days had expired, when he resolved to
return it to the owner.

He proceeded to the palace, and,
undismayed at sight of long lines of
soldiery and officials, asked for an audience
with the Empress.

"What dost thou mean by this?"
she inquired, when he told her his story
and gave her the diadem. "Why didst
thou delay until this hour? Dost thou
know the penalty? Thy head must be
forfeited."

"I delayed until now," the rabbi
answered calmly, "so that thou mightst
know that I return thy diadem, not for
the sake of the reward, still less out of
fear of punishment; but solely to comply[175]
with the Divine command not to withhold
from another the property which
belongs to him."

"Blessed be thy God!" the Empress
answered, and dismissed the rabbi without
further reproof; for had he not
done right for right's sake?

2. Friendship

A certain father was doubly blessed—he
had reached a good old age, and had
ten sons. One day he called them to
his side, and after repeated expressions
of affection, told them that he had
acquired a fortune by industry and
economy, and would give them one
hundred gold pieces each before his
death, so that they might begin business
for themselves, and not be obliged to
wait until he had passed away. It
happened, however, that, soon after, he
lost a portion of his property, much to
his regret, and had only nine hundred
and fifty gold pieces left. So he gave
one hundred to each of his nine sons.
When his youngest son, whom he loved
most of all, asked naturally what was
to be his share, the father replied:

"My son, I promised to give each of
thy brothers one hundred gold pieces.
I shall keep my word to them. I have
fifty left. Thirty I shall reserve for my
funeral expenses, and twenty will be
thy portion. But understand this—I
possess, in addition, ten friends, whom I
give over to thee as compensation for
the loss of the eighty gold pieces. Believe
me, they are worth more than all the gold
and silver."

The youth tenderly embraced his
parent, and assured him that he was
content, such was his confidence and
affection. In a few days the father
died, and the nine sons took their
money, and without a thought of their
youngest brother and the small amount
he had received, followed each his own
fancy. But the youngest son, although
his portion was the least, resolved to
heed his father's words, and hold fast
to the ten friends. When a short time
had elapsed he prepared a simple feast,
went to the ten friends of his father,
and said to them: "My father, almost
in his last words, asked me to keep
you, his friends, in honor. Before I
leave this place to seek my fortune elsewhere,
will you not share with me a
farewell meal, and aid me thus to comply
with his dying request?"

The ten friends, stirred by his earnestness
and cordiality, accepted his invitation
with pleasure, and enjoyed the
repast, although they were used to
richer fare. When the moment for
parting arrived, however, one of them
rose and spoke: "My friends, it seems
to me that of all the sons of our dear
friend that has gone, the youngest alone
is mindful of his father's friendship for
us, and reverences his memory. Let
us, then, be true friends to him, for his
own sake as well, and provide for him
a generous sum, that he may begin
business here, and not be forced to live
among strangers."

The proposal, so unexpected and yet
so merited, was received with applause.
The youth, proud of their friendship,
soon became a prosperous merchant,
who never forgot that faithful friends
were more valuable than gold or
silver, and left an honored name to his
descendants.

3. True Charity

There lived once a very wealthy man,
who cared little for money, except as[176]
a means for helping others. He used
to adopt a peculiar plan in his method
of charitable relief. He had three boxes
made for the three different classes of
people whom he desired to assist. In
one box he put gold pieces, which he
distributed among artists and scholars,
for he honored knowledge and learning
as the highest possession. In the second
box he placed silver pieces for widows
and orphans, for whom his sympathies
were readily awakened. In the third
were copper coins for the general poor
and beggars—no one was turned away
from his dwelling without some gift,
however small.

That the man was beloved by all,
need hardly be said. He rejoiced that
he was enabled to do so much good,
retained his modest bearing, and continued
to regard his wealth as only an
incentive to promote the happiness of
mankind, without distinction of creed
or nationality. Unhappily, his wife was
just the opposite. She rarely gave food
or raiment to the poor, and felt angry
at her husband's liberality, which she
considered shameless extravagance.

The day came when in the pressure
of various duties he had to leave his
house, and could not return until the
morrow. Unaware of his sudden departure,
the poor knocked at the door as
usual for his kind gifts; but when they
found him absent, they were about to
go away or remain in the street, being
terrified at the thought of asking his
wife for alms. Vexed at their conduct,
she exclaimed impetuously: "I will give
to the poor according to my husband's
method."

She seized the keys of the boxes, and
first opened the box of gold. But how
great was her terror when she gazed at
its contents—frogs jumping here and
there. Then she went to the silver
box, and it was full of ants. With
troubled heart, she opened the copper
box, and it was crowded with creeping
bugs. Loud then were her complaints,
and bitter her tears, at the deception,
and she kept her room until her husband
returned.

No sooner did the man enter the room,
annoyed that so many poor people were
kept waiting outside, than she asked
him: "Why did you give me keys to
boxes of frogs, ants, and bugs, instead
of gold, silver, and copper? Was it
right thus to deceive your wife, and
disappoint the poor?"

"Not so," rejoined her husband.
"The mistake must be yours, not mine.
I have given you the right keys. I do
not know what you have done with them.
Come, let me have them. I am guiltless
of any deception." He took the
keys, quickly opened the boxes, and
found the coins as he had left them.
"Ah, dear wife," said he, when she had
regained her composure, "your heart, I
fear, was not in the gift, when you wished
to give to the poor. It is the feeling that
prompts us to aid, not the mere money,
which is the chief thing after all."

And ever after, her heart was changed.
Her gifts blessed the poor of the land,
and aroused their love and reverence.

4. An Eastern Garden

In an Eastern city a lovely garden
flourished, whose beauty and luxuriance
awakened much admiration. It was
the owner's greatest pleasure to watch
its growth, as leaf, flower, and tree
seemed daily to unfold to brighter
bloom. One morning, while taking his
usual stroll through the well-kept paths,[177]
he was surprised to find that some
blossoms were picked to pieces. The
next day he noticed more signs of mischief,
and rendered thus more observant
he gave himself no rest until he had
discovered the culprit. It was a little
trembling bird, whom he managed to
capture, and was about to kill in his
anger, when it exclaimed: "Do not
kill me, I beg you, kind sir. I am only
a wee, tiny bird. My flesh is too little
to satisfy you. I would not furnish
one-hundredth of a meal to a man of
your size. Let me free without any
hesitation, and I shall teach you something
that will be of much use to you
and your friends."

"I would dearly like to put an end to
you," replied the man, "for you were
rapidly putting an end to my garden.
It is a good thing to rid the world of
such annoyances. But as I am not
revengeful, and am always glad to learn
something useful, I shall set you free
this time." And he opened his hand
to give the bird more air.

"Attention!" cried the bird. "Here
are three rules which should guide you
through life, and if you observe them
you will find your path made easier:
Do not cry over spilt milk; do not desire
what is unattainable, and do not believe
what is impossible."

The man was satisfied with the advice,
and let the bird escape; but it had
scarcely regained its liberty, when, from
a high tree opposite, it exclaimed:

"What a silly man! The idea of letting
me escape! If you only knew what
you have lost! But it is too late now."

"What have I lost?" the man asked,
angrily.

"Why, if you had killed me, as you
intended, you would have found inside
of me a huge pearl, as large as a goose's
egg, and you would have been a wealthy
man forever."

"Dear little bird," the man said in
his blandest tones; "sweet little bird, I
will not harm you. Only come down to
me, and I will treat you as if you were
my own child, and give you fruit and
flowers all day. I assure you of this
most sacredly."

But the bird shook its head sagely,
and replied: "What a silly man, to
forget so soon the advice which was
given him in all seriousness. I told you
not to cry over spilt milk, and here you
are, worrying over what has happened.
I urged you not to desire the unattainable,
and now you wish to capture me
again. And, finally, I asked you not
to believe what is impossible, and you
are rashly imagining that I have a huge
pearl inside of me, when a goose's egg
is larger than my whole body. You
ought to learn your lessons better in
the future, if you would become wise,"
added the bird, as with another twist of
its head it flew away, and was lost in
the distance.

A classic collection of short stories from the
ancient Hebrew sages is the little book,
Hebrew Tales, published in London in 1826
by the noted Jewish scholar Hyman Hurwitz
(1770-1844). A modern handy edition
of this book (about sixty tales) is published
as Vol. II of the Library of Jewish Classics.
Of special interest is the fact that it contained
three stories by the poet Samuel
Taylor Coleridge, who had published them
first in his periodical, The Friend. Coleridge
was much interested in Hebrew
literature, and especially fond of speaking
in parables, as those who know "The
Ancient Mariner" will readily recall. The[178]
following is one of the three stories referred
to, and it had prefixed to it the significant
text, "The Lord helpeth man and beast."
(Psalm XXXVI, 6.)

THE LORD HELPETH MAN
AND BEAST

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

During his march to conquer the world,
Alexander, the Macedonian, came to a
people in Africa who dwelt in a remote
and secluded corner, in peaceful huts,
and knew neither war nor conqueror.
They led him to the hut of their chief,
who received him hospitably, and placed
before him golden dates, golden figs, and
bread of gold.

"Do you eat gold in this country?"
said Alexander.

"I take it for granted," replied the
chief, "that thou wert able to find
eatable food in thine own country.
For what reason, then, art thou come
amongst us?"

"Your gold has not tempted me
hither," said Alexander, "but I would
become acquainted with your manners
and customs."

"So be it," rejoined the other:
"sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth
thee."

At the close of this conversation, two
citizens entered, as into their court of
justice. The plaintiff said, "I bought
of this man a piece of land, and as I
was making a deep drain through it,
I found a treasure. This is not mine,
for I only bargained for the land, and
not for any treasure that might be concealed
beneath it; and yet the former
owner of the land will not receive it."
The defendant answered, "I hope I have
a conscience, as well as my fellow citizen.
I sold him the land with all its contingent,
as well as existing advantages, and
consequently, the treasure inclusively."

The chief, who was at the same time
their supreme judge, recapitulated their
words, in order that the parties might
see whether or not he understood them
aright. Then, after some reflection, said:
"Thou hast a son, friend, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And thou," addressing the other, "a
daughter?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, let thy son marry thy
daughter, and bestow the treasure on
the young couple for a marriage portion."
Alexander seemed surprised and perplexed.
"Think you my sentence
unjust?" the chief asked him.

"Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it
astonishes me."

"And how, then," rejoined the chief,
"would the case have been decided in
your country?"

"To confess the truth," said Alexander,
"we should have taken both parties into
custody, and have seized the treasure
for the king's use."

"For the king's use!" exclaimed the
chief; "does the sun shine on that
country?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Does it rain there?"

"Assuredly."

"Wonderful! But are there tame
animals in the country, that live on the
grass and green herbs?"

"Very many, and of many kinds."

"Ay, that must, then, be the cause,"
said the chief: "for the sake of those
innocent animals the All-gracious Being
continues to let the sun shine, and the
rain drop down on your country; since
its inhabitants are unworthy of such
blessings.[179]"

By almost common consent Hans Christian
Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author,
is the acknowledged master of all modern
writers of fairy tales. He was born in
poverty, the son of a poor shoemaker.
With a naturally keen dramatic sense, his
imagination was stirred by stories from
the Arabian Nights and La Fontaine's
Fables, by French and Spanish soldiers
marching through his native city, and by
listening to the wonderful folk tales of his
country. On a toy stage and with toy
actors, these vivid impressions took actual
form. The world continued a dramatic
spectacle to him throughout his existence.
His consuming ambition was for the stage,
but he had none of the personal graces so
necessary for success. He was ungainly
and awkward, like his "ugly duckling."
But when at last he began to write, he had
the power to transfer to the page the vivid
dramas in his mind, and this power culminated
in the creation of fairy stories for
children which he began to publish in 1835.
It is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter
Pan, "never grew up," and it is certain
that he never lost the power of seeing
things as children see them. Like many
great writers whose fame now rests on the
suffrages of child readers, Andersen seems
at first to have felt that the Tales were
slight and beneath his dignity. They are
not all of the same high quality. Occasionally
one of them becomes "too sentimental
and sickly sweet," but the best of
them have a sturdiness that is thoroughly
refreshing.

The most acute analysis of the elements of
Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer
for children is that made by his fellow-countryman
Georg Brandes in Eminent
Authors of the Nineteenth Century. A
briefer account on similar lines will be
found in H. J. Boyesen's Scandinavian
Literature. A still briefer account,
eminently satisfactory for an introduction to
Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells, is in
Warner's Library of the World's Best
Literature. The interested student cannot,
of course, afford to neglect Andersen's
own The Story of My Life. Among the
more elaborate biographies the Life of
Hans Christian Andersen by R. Nisbet Bain
is probably the best. The first translation
of the Tales into English was made by
Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as far as it goes,
is still regarded as one of the finest. However,
Andersen has been very fortunate in
his many translators. The version by
H. W. Dulcken has been published in many
cheap forms and perhaps more widely read
than any other. In addition to the stories
in the following pages, some of those most
suitable for use are "The Little Match
Girl," "The Silver Shilling," "Five Peas
in the Pod," "Hans Clodhopper," and
"The Snow Queen." The latter is one
of the longest and an undoubted masterpiece.

The first two stories following are taken from
Mrs. Henderson's Andersen's Best Fairy
Tales. (Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.)
This little book contains thirteen stories
in a very simple translation and also an
excellent story of Andersen's life in a form
most attractive to children. "The Princess
and the Pea" is a story for the story's
sake. The humor, perhaps slightly satirical,
is based upon the notion so common
in the old folk tales that royal personages
are decidedly more delicate than the person
of low degree. However, the tendency to
think oneself of more consequence than
another is not confined to any one class.

THE REAL PRINCESS

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

There was once a Prince who wanted
to marry a Princess. But it was only
a real Princess that he wanted to marry.

He traveled all over the world to find
a real one. But, although there were[180]
plenty of princesses, whether they were
real princesses he could never discover.
There was always something that did
not seem quite right about them.

At last he had to come home again.
But he was very sad, because he wanted
to marry a real Princess.

One night there was a terrible storm.
It thundered and lightened and the rain
poured down in torrents. In the middle
of the storm there came a knocking,
knocking, knocking at the castle gate.
The kind old King himself went down
to open the castle gate.

It was a young Princess that stood
outside the gate. The wind and the
rain had almost blown her to pieces.
Water streamed out of her hair and out
of her clothes. Water ran in at the
points of her shoes and out again at the
heels. Yet she said that she was a real
Princess.

"Well, we will soon find out about
that!" thought the Queen.

She said nothing, but went into the
bedroom, took off all the bedding, and
put a small dried pea on the bottom of
the bedstead. Then she piled twenty
mattresses on top of the pea, and on
top of these she put twenty feather beds.
This was where the Princess had to sleep
that night.

In the morning they asked her how
she had slept through the night.

"Oh, miserably!" said the Princess.
"I hardly closed my eyes the whole
night long! Goodness only knows what
was in my bed! I slept upon something
so hard that I am black and blue
all over. It was dreadful!"

So then they knew that she was a
real Princess. For, through the twenty
mattresses and the twenty feather beds,
she had still felt the pea. No one but
a real Princess could have had such a
tender skin.

So the Prince took her for his wife.
He knew now that he had a real Princess.

As for the pea, it was put in a museum
where it may still be seen if no one has
carried it away.

With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's
Tales are based upon older stories, either
upon some old folk tale or upon something
that he ran across in his reading. Dr.
Brandes, in his Eminent Authors, shows in
detail how "The Emperor's New Clothes"
came into being. "One day in turning
over the leaves of Don Manuel's Count
Lucanor, Andersen became charmed by
the homely wisdom of the old Spanish
story, with the delicate flavor of the Middle
Ages pervading it, and he lingered over
chapter vii, which treats of how a king
was served by three rogues." But Andersen's
story is a very different one in many
ways from his Spanish original. For one
thing, the meaning is so universal that no
one can miss it. Most of us have, in all
likelihood, at some time pretended to know
what we do not know or to be what we are
not in order to save our face, to avoid the
censure or ridicule of others. "There is
much concerning which people dare not
speak the truth, through cowardice, through
fear of acting otherwise than 'all the world,'
through anxiety lest they should appear
stupid. And the story is eternally new and
it never ends. It has its grave side, but
just because of its endlessness it has also
its humorous side." When the absurd
bubble of the grand procession is punctured
by the child, whose mental honesty
has not yet been spoiled by the pressure
of convention, the Emperor "held himself
stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains
carried the invisible train." For it would
never do to hold up the procession!

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

Many years ago there lived an Emperor
who thought so much of new clothes
that he spent all his money on them. He
did not care for his soldiers; he did not
care to go to the theater. He liked to
drive out in the park only that he might
show off his new clothes. He had a coat
for every hour of the day. They usually
say of a king, "He is in the council chamber."
But of the Emperor they said,
"He is in the clothes closet!"

It was a gay city in which the Emperor
lived. And many strangers came to
visit it every day. Among these, one
day, there came two rogues who set themselves
up as weavers. They said they
knew how to weave the most beautiful
cloths imaginable. And not only were
the colors and patterns used remarkably
beautiful, but clothes made from this
cloth could not be seen by any one who
was unfit for the office he held or was too
stupid for any use.

"Those would be fine clothes!" thought
the Emperor. "If I wore those I could
find out what men in my empire were not
fit for the places they held. I could tell
the clever men from the dunces! I must
have some clothes woven for me at once!"

So he gave the two rogues a great deal
of money that they might begin their
work at once.

The rogues immediately put up two
looms and pretended to be working.
But there was nothing at all on their
looms. They called for the finest silks
and the brightest gold, but this they put
into their pockets. At the empty looms
they worked steadily until late into the
night.

"I should like to know how the weavers
are getting on with my clothes," thought
the Emperor.

But he felt a little uneasy when he
thought that any one who was stupid or
was not fit for his office would be unable
to see the cloth. Of course he had no
fears for himself; but still he thought he
would send some one else first, just to
see how matters stood.

"I will send my faithful old Minister
to the weavers," thought the Emperor.
"He can see how the stuff looks, for he is
a clever man, and no one is so careful in
fulfilling duties as he is!"

So the good old Minister went into the
room where the two rogues sat working
at the empty looms.

"Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister,
opening his eyes wide, "I can't see
a thing!" But he didn't care to say so.

Both the rascals begged him to be good
enough to step a little nearer. They
pointed to the empty looms and asked
him if he did not think the pattern and
the coloring wonderful. The poor old
Minister stared and stared as hard as he
could, but he could not see anything, for,
of course, there was nothing to see!

"Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it
possible that I am a dunce? I never
thought so! Certainly no one must
know it. Am I unfit for office? It will
never do to say that I cannot see the
stuff!"

"Well, sir, why do you say nothing of
it?" asked the rogue who was pretending
to weave.

"Oh, it is beautiful—charming!" said
the old Minister, peering through his
spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and
what wonderful colors! I shall tell the
Emperor that I am very much pleased
with it."[182]

"Well, we are glad to hear you say so,"
answered the two swindlers.

Then they named all the colors of the
invisible cloth upon the looms, and
described the peculiar pattern. The old
Minister listened intently, so that he
could repeat all that was said of it to the
Emperor.

The rogues now began to demand more
money, more silk, and more gold thread
in order to proceed with the weaving.
All of this, of course, went into their
pockets. Not a single strand was ever
put on the empty looms at which they
went on working.

The Emperor soon sent another faithful
friend to see how soon the new clothes
would be ready. But he fared no better
than the Minister. He looked and looked
and looked, but still saw nothing but the
empty looms.

"Isn't that a pretty piece of stuff?"
asked both rogues, showing and explaining
the handsome pattern which was not
there at all.

"I am not stupid!" thought the man.
"It must be that I am not worthy of my
good position. That is, indeed, strange.
But I must not let it be known!"

So he praised the cloth he did not see,
and expressed his approval of the color
and the design that were not there. To
the Emperor he said, "It is charming!"

Soon everybody in town was talking
about the wonderful cloth that the two
rogues were weaving.

The Emperor began to think now that
he himself would like to see the wonderful
cloth while it was still on the looms.
Accompanied by a number of his friends,
among whom were the two faithful
officers who had already beheld the
imaginary stuff, he went to visit the two
men who were weaving, might and
main, without any fiber and without any
thread.

"Isn't it splendid!" cried the two
statesmen who had already been there,
and who thought the others would see
something upon the empty looms. "Look,
your Majesty! What colors! And what
a design!"

"What's this?" thought the Emperor.
"I see nothing at all! Am I a dunce?
Am I not fit to be Emperor? That
would be the worst thing that could
happen to me, if it were true."

"Oh, it is very pretty!" said the
Emperor aloud. "It has my highest
approval!"

He nodded his head happily, and stared
at the empty looms. Never would he
say that he could see nothing!

His friends, too, gazed and gazed, but
saw no more than had the others. Yet
they all cried out, "It is beautiful!" and
advised the Emperor to wear a suit made
of this cloth in a great procession that was
soon to take place.

"It is magnificent, gorgeous!" was the
cry that went from mouth to mouth.
The Emperor gave each of the rogues a
royal ribbon to wear in his buttonhole,
and called them the Imperial Court
Weavers.

The rogues were up the whole night
before the morning of the procession.
They kept more than sixteen candles
burning. The people could see them
hard at work, completing the new clothes
of the Emperor. They took yards of
stuff down from the empty looms; they
made cuts in the air with big scissors;
they sewed with needles without thread;
and, at last, they said, "The clothes are
ready!"

The Emperor himself, with his grandest
courtiers, went to put on his new suit.[183]

"See!" said the rogues, lifting their
arms as if holding something. "Here are
the trousers! Here is the coat! Here
is the cape!" and so on. "It is as light
as a spider's web. One might think one
had nothing on. But that is just the
beauty of it!"

"Very nice," said the courtiers. But
they could see nothing; for there was
nothing!

"Will your Imperial Majesty be graciously
pleased to take off your clothes,"
asked the rogues, "so that we may put
on the new ones before this long mirror?"

The Emperor took off all his own
clothes, and the two rogues pretended
to put on each new garment as it was
ready. They wrapped him about, and
they tied and they buttoned. The Emperor
turned round and round before the
mirror.

"How well his Majesty looks in his
new clothes!" said the people. "How
becoming they are! What a pattern!
What colors! It is a beautiful dress!"

"They are waiting outside with the
canopy which is to be carried over your
Majesty in the procession," said the
master of ceremonies.

"I am ready," said the Emperor.
"Don't the clothes fit well?" he asked,
giving a last glance into the mirror as
though he were looking at all his new
finery.

The men who were to carry the train
of the Emperor's cloak stooped down to
the floor as if picking up the train, and
then held it high in the air. They did
not dare let it be known that they could
see nothing.

So the Emperor marched along under
the bright canopy. Everybody in the
streets and at the windows cried out:
"How beautiful the Emperor's new
clothes are! What a fine train! And
they fit to perfection!"

No one would let it be known that he
could see nothing, for that would have
proved that he was unfit for office or
that he was very, very stupid. None of
the Emperor's clothes had ever been as
successful as these.

"But he has nothing on!" said a little
child.

"Just listen to the innocent!" said its
father.

But one person whispered to another
what the child had said. "He has nothing
on! A child says he has nothing on!"

"But he has nothing on!" at last cried
all the people.

The Emperor writhed, for he knew that
this was true. But he realized that it
would never do to stop the procession.
So he held himself stiffer than ever, and
the chamberlains carried the invisible
train.

In his story "The Nightingale," Andersen
suggests that the so-called upper class of
society may become so conventionalized
as to be unable to appreciate true beauty.
Poor fishermen and the little kitchen girl
in the story recognize the beauty of the
exquisite song of the nightingale, and
Andersen shows his regard for royalty by
having the emperor appreciate it twice.
The last part of the story is especially
impressive. When Death approached the
emperor and took from him the symbols
that had made him rank above his fellows,
the emperor saw the realities of life and
again perceived the beauty of the nightingale's
song. This contact with real life
made Death shrink away. Then the
emperor learned Andersen's message to
artificial society: If you would behold
true beauty, you must have it in your
own heart.

THE NIGHTINGALE

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

In China, you must know, the Emperor
is a Chinaman, and all whom he has
about him are Chinamen too. It happened
a good many years ago, but that's
just why it's worth while to hear the story
before it is forgotten. The Emperor's
palace was the most splendid in the
world; it was made entirely of porcelain,
very costly, but so delicate and brittle
that one had to take care how one
touched it. In the garden were to be
seen the most wonderful flowers, and to
the costliest of them silver bells were
tied, which sounded, so that nobody
should pass by without noticing the
flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's
garden was admirably arranged.
And it extended so far that the gardener
himself did not know where the end was.
If a man went on and on, he came into
a glorious forest with high trees and deep
lakes. The wood extended straight down
to the sea, which was blue and deep;
great ships could sail, too, beneath the
branches of the trees; and in the trees
lived a Nightingale, which sang so
splendidly that even the poor fisherman,
who had many other things to do,
stopped still and listened, when he had
gone out at night to throw out his nets,
and heard the Nightingale.

"How beautiful that is!" he said; but
he was obliged to attend to his property,
and thus forgot the bird. But when the
next night the bird sang again, and the
fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again,
"How beautiful that is!"

From all the countries of the world
travelers came to the city of the Emperor,
and admired it, and the palace and
the garden, but when they heard the
Nightingale, they said, "That is the
best of all!"

And the travelers told of it when they
came home; and the learnèd men wrote
many books about the town, the palace,
and the garden. But they did not forget
the Nightingale; that was placed highest
of all; and those who were poets wrote
most magnificent poems about the Nightingale
in the wood by the deep lake.

The books went through all the world,
and a few of them once came to the
Emperor. He sat in his golden chair,
and read, and read: every moment he
nodded his head, for it pleased him to
peruse the masterly descriptions of the
city, the palace, and the garden. "But
the Nightingale is the best of all," it
stood written there.

"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor.
"I don't know the Nightingale
at all! Is there such a bird in my empire,
and even in my garden? I've never heard
of that. To think that I should have to
learn such a thing for the first time
from books!"

And hereupon he called his cavalier.
This cavalier was so grand that if anyone
lower in rank than himself dared to
speak to him, or to ask him any question,
he answered nothing but "P!"—and
that meant nothing.

"There is said to be a wonderful bird
here called a Nightingale," said the
Emperor. "They say it is the best
thing in all my great empire. Why have
I never heard anything about it?"

"I have never heard him named,"
replied the cavalier. "He has never
been introduced at Court."

"I command that he shall appear this
evening, and sing before me," said the
Emperor. "All the world knows what
I possess, and I do not know it myself!"[185]

"I have never heard him mentioned,"
said the cavalier. "I will seek for him.
I will find him."

But where was he to be found? The
cavalier ran up and down all the staircases,
through halls and passages, but no
one among all those whom he met had
heard talk of the Nightingale. And the
cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and
said that it must be a fable invented by
the writers of books.

"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe
how much is written that is fiction,
besides something that they call the
black art."

"But the book in which I read this,"
said the Emperor, "was sent to me by
the high and mighty Emperor of Japan
and therefore it cannot be a falsehood.
I will hear the Nightingale! It must be
here this evening! It has my imperial
favor; and if it does not come, all the
Court shall be trampled upon after the
Court has supped!"

"Tsing-pe!" said the cavalier; and
again he ran up and down all the staircases,
and through all the halls and corridors;
and half the Court ran with
him, for the courtiers did not like being
trampled upon.

Then there was a great inquiry after
the wonderful Nightingale, which all the
world knew excepting the people at
Court.

At last they met with a poor little girl
in the kitchen, who said:

"The Nightingale? I know it well;
yes, it can sing gloriously. Every evening
I get leave to carry my poor sick
mother the scraps from the table. She
lives down by the strand; and when I
get back and am tired, and rest in the
wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing.
And then the water comes into my
eyes, and it is just as if my mother
kissed me."

"Little kitchen girl," said the cavalier,
"I will get you a place in the Court
kitchen, with permission to see the
Emperor dine, if you will but lead us
to the Nightingale, for it is announced
for this evening."

So they all went out into the wood
where the Nightingale was accustomed to
sing; half the Court went forth. When
they were in the midst of their journey
a cow began to low.

"Oh!" cried the Court pages, "now
we have it! That shows a wonderful
power in so small a creature! I have
certainly heard it before."

"No, those are cows lowing," said the
little kitchen girl. "We are a long way
from the place yet."

Now the frogs began to croak in the
marsh.

"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court
preacher. "Now I hear it—it sounds
just like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs," said the little
kitchen maid. "But now I think we
shall soon hear it."

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

"That is it!" exclaimed the little girl.
"Listen, listen! and yonder it sits."

And she pointed to a little gray bird
up in the boughs.

"Is it possible?" cried the cavalier.
"I should never have thought it looked
like that! How simple it looks! It must
certainly have lost its color at seeing such
grand people around."

"With the greatest pleasure!" replied
the Nightingale, and began to sing most
delightfully.[186]

"It sounds just like glass bells!" said
the cavalier. "And look at its little
throat, how it's working! It's wonderful
that we should never have heard it before.
That bird will be a great success at
Court."

"Shall I sing once more before the
Emperor?" inquired the Nightingale, for
it thought the Emperor was present.

"My excellent little Nightingale," said
the cavalier, "I have great pleasure in
inviting you to a Court festival this
evening, when you shall charm his
Imperial Majesty with your beautiful
singing."

"My song sounds best in the green
wood," replied the Nightingale; still it
came willingly when it heard what the
Emperor wished.

The palace was festively adorned.
The walls and the flooring, which were
of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of
thousands of golden lamps. The most
glorious flowers, which could ring clearly,
had been placed in the passages. There
was a running to and fro, and a thorough
draught, and all the bells rang so loudly
that one could not hear one's self speak.

In the midst of the great hall, where
the Emperor sat, a golden perch had
been placed, on which the Nightingale
was to sit. The whole Court was there,
and the little cook-maid had got leave to
stand behind the door, as she had now
received the title of a real Court cook.
All were in full dress, and all looked at
the little gray bird, to which the Emperor
nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so gloriously
that the tears came into the Emperor's
eyes, and the tears ran down over his
cheeks; then the Nightingale sang still
more sweetly, that went straight to the
heart. The Emperor was so much
pleased that he said the Nightingale
should have his golden slipper to wear
round its neck. But the Nightingale
declined this with thanks, saying it had
already received a sufficient reward.

"I have seen tears in the Emperor's
eyes—that is the real treasure to me.
An Emperor's tears have a peculiar
power. I am rewarded enough!" And
then it sang again with a sweet, glorious
voice.

"That's the most amiable coquetry I
ever saw!" said the ladies who stood
round about, and then they took water in
their mouths to gurgle when anyone
spoke to them. They thought they
should be nightingales too. And the
lackeys and chambermaids reported that
they were satisfied also; and that was
saying a good deal, for they are the most
difficult to please. In short, the Nightingale
achieved a real success.

It was now to remain at Court, to
have its own cage, with liberty to go
out twice every day and once at night.
Twelve servants were appointed when
the Nightingale went out, each of whom
had a silken string fastened to the bird's
legs, which they held very tight. There
was really no pleasure in an excursion of
that kind.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful
bird, and whenever two people met, one
said nothing but "Nightin," and the
other said "gale"; and then they both
sighed, and understood one another.
Eleven pedlars' children were named
after the bird, but not one of them could
sing a note.

One day the Emperor received a large
parcel, on which was written, "The
Nightingale."

"There we have a new book about this
celebrated bird," said the Emperor.[187]

But it was not a book, but a little work
of art, contained in a box—an artificial
nightingale, which was to sing like a
natural one, and was brilliantly ornamented
with diamonds, sapphires, and
rubies. So soon as the artificial bird
was wound up, he could sing one of the
pieces that he really sang, and then his
tail moved up and down, and shone with
silver and gold. Round his neck hung
a little ribbon, and on that was written,
"The Emperor of China's nightingale is
poor compared to that of the Emperor
of Japan."

"That is capital!" said they all, and
he who had brought the artificial bird
immediately received the title, Imperial
Head-Nightingale-Bringer.

"Now they must sing together; what
a duet that will be!" cried the courtiers.

And so they had to sing together; but
it did not sound very well, for the real
Nightingale sang its own way, and the
artificial bird sang waltzes.

"That's not his fault," said the playmaster;
"he's quite perfect, and very
much in my style."

Now the artificial bird was to sing
alone. It had just as much success as
the real one, and then it was much handsomer
to look at—it shone like bracelets
and breastpins.

Three and thirty times over did it
sing the same piece, and yet was not
tired. The people would gladly have
heard it again, but the Emperor said that
the living Nightingale ought to sing
something now. But where was it? No
one had noticed that it had flown away
out of the open window, back to the
green wood.

"But what has become of that?"
asked the Emperor.

And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale,
and declared that it was a very
ungrateful creature.

"We have the best bird after all,"
said they.

And so the artificial bird had to sing
again, and that was the thirty-fourth
time that they listened to the same piece.
For all that they did not know it quite
by heart, for it was so very difficult.
And the playmaster praised the bird
particularly; yes, he declared that it was
better than a nightingale, not only with
regard to its plumage and the many
beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.

"For you see, ladies and gentlemen,
and above all, your Imperial Majesty,
with a real nightingale one can never
calculate what is coming, but in this
artificial bird, everything is settled.
One can explain it; one can open it and
make people understand where the
waltzes come from, how they go, and
how one follows up another."

"Those are quite our own ideas,"
they all said.

And the speaker received permission to
show the bird to the people on the next
Sunday. The people were to hear it
sing too, the Emperor commanded: and
they did hear it, and were as much
pleased as if they had all got tipsy upon
tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion,
and they all said, "Oh!" and held up
their forefingers and nodded. But the
poor fisherman, who had heard the real
Nightingale, said:

"It sounds pretty enough, and the
melodies resemble each other, but there's
something wanting, though I know not
what!"

The real Nightingale was banished
from the country and empire. The
artificial bird had its place on a silken[188]
cushion close to the Emperor's bed; all
the presents it had received, gold and
precious stones, were ranged about it;
in title it had advanced to be the High
Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in
rank to Number One on the left hand;
for the Emperor considered that side the
most important on which the heart is
placed, and even in an Emperor the heart
is on the left side; and the playmaster
wrote a work of five and twenty volumes
about the artificial bird; it was very
learnèd and very long, full of the most
difficult Chinese words; but yet all the
people declared that they had read it
and understood it, for fear of being considered
stupid, and having their bodies
trampled on.

So a whole year went by. The Emperor,
the Court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little twitter in the
artificial bird's song by heart. But just
for that reason it pleased them best—they
could sing with it themselves, and
they did so. The street boys sang,
"Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor
himself sang it too. Yes, that was
certainly famous.

But one evening, when the artificial
bird was singing its best, and the Emperor
lay in bed listening to it, something
inside the bird said, "Whizz!" Something
cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the
wheels ran round, and then the music
stopped.

The Emperor immediately sprang out
of bed, and caused his body physician to
be called; but what could he do? Then
they sent for a watchmaker, and after a
good deal of talking and investigation,
the bird was put into something like
order, but the watchmaker said that
the bird must be carefully treated, for
the barrels were worn, and it would be
impossible to put new ones in in such a
manner that the music would go. There
was a great lamentation; only once in
the year was it permitted to let the bird
sing, and that was almost too much.
But then the playmaster made a little
speech full of heavy words, and said this
was just as good as before—and so of
course it was as good as before.

Now five years had gone by, and a
real grief came upon the whole nation.
The Chinese were really fond of their
Emperor, and now he was ill, and could
not, it was said, live much longer.
Already a new Emperor had been chosen,
and the people stood out in the street and
asked the cavalier how the Emperor did.

"P!" said he, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his
great, gorgeous bed; the whole Court
thought him dead, and each one ran to
pay homage to the new ruler. The
chamberlains ran out to talk it over,
and the ladies' maids had a great coffee
party. All about, in all the halls and
passages, cloth had been laid down so
that no footstep could be heard, and
therefore it was quiet there, quite quiet.
But the Emperor was not dead yet; stiff
and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed, with
the long velvet curtains and the heavy
gold tassels; high up, a window stood
open, and the moon shone in upon the
Emperor and the artificial bird.

The poor Emperor could scarcely
breathe; it was just as if something lay
upon his chest; he opened his eyes, and
then he saw that it was Death who sat
upon his chest, and had put on his golden
crown, and held in one hand the Emperor's
sword, in the other his beautiful
banner. And all around, from among
the folds of the splendid velvet curtains,
strange heads peered forth; a few very[189]
ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild.
These were all the Emperor's bad and
good deeds, that stood before him now
that Death sat upon his heart.

"Do you remember this?" whispered
one to the other. "Do you remember
that?" and then they told him so much
that the perspiration ran from his forehead.

"I did not know that!" said the Emperor.
"Music! music! the great Chinese
drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear
all they say!"

And they continued speaking, and
Death nodded like a Chinaman to all
they said.

"Music! music!" cried the Emperor.
"You little precious golden bird, sing,
sing! I have given you gold and costly
presents; I have even hung my golden
slipper around your neck—sing now,
sing!"

But the bird stood still; no one was
there to wind him up, and he could not
sing without that; but Death continued to
stare at the Emperor with his great, hollow
eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.

Then there sounded from the window,
suddenly, the most lovely song. It was
the little live Nightingale, that sat outside
on a spray. It had heard of the
Emperor's sad plight, and had come to
sing to him of comfort and hope. As it
sang the specters grew paler and paler;
the blood ran quicker and more quickly
through the Emperor's weak limbs; and
even Death listened, and said:

"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"

"But will you give me that splendid
golden sword? Will you give me that
rich banner? Will you give me the
Emperor's crown?"

And Death gave up each of these
treasures for a song. And the Nightingale
sang on and on; and it sang of the
quiet churchyard where the white roses
grow, where the elder blossoms smell
sweet, and where the fresh grass is
moistened by the tears of survivors.
Then Death felt a longing to see his garden,
and floated out at the window in the
form of a cold white mist.

"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor.
"You heavenly little bird; I know you
well. I banished you from my country
and empire, and yet you have charmed
away the evil faces from my couch, and
banished Death from my heart! How
can I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me!" replied the
Nightingale. "I have drawn tears from
your eyes, when I sang the first time—I
shall never forget that. Those are the
jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But
now sleep, and grow fresh and strong
again. I will sing you something."

And it sang, and the Emperor fell into
a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and
refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone
upon him through the windows when he
awoke refreshed and restored: not one of
his servants had yet returned, for they
all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale
still sat beside him and sang.

"You must always stay with me,"
said the Emperor. "You shall sing as
you please; and I'll break the artificial
bird into a thousand pieces."

"Not so," replied the Nightingale.
"It did well as long as it could; keep it
as you have done till now. I cannot
build my nest in the palace to dwell in it,
but let me come when I feel the wish;
then I will sit in the evening on the spray
yonder by the window, and sing you
something, so that you may be glad and
thoughtful at once. I will sing of those
who are happy and of those who suffer.[190]
I will sing of good and of evil that remains
hidden round about you. The little
singing bird flies far around, to the poor
fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to
everyone who dwells far away from you
and from your Court. I love your heart
more than your crown, and yet the crown
has an air of sanctity about it. I will
come and sing to you—but one thing
you must promise me."

"Every thing!" said the Emperor; and
he stood there in his imperial robes,
which he had put on himself, and pressed
the sword which was heavy with gold
to his heart.

"One thing I beg of you: tell no one
that you have a little bird who tells you
everything. Then it will go all the
better."

And the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came in to look at their
dead Emperor, and—yes, there he stood,
and the Emperor said, "Good-morning!"

This story is a favorite for the Christmas
season. It is loosely constructed, and
rambles along for some time after it might
have been expected to finish. Such rambling
is often very attractive to childish
listeners, as it allows the introduction of
unexpected incidents. Miss Kready has
some interesting suggestions about dramatizing
this story in her Study of Fairy Tales,
pp. 151-153. The translation is Dulcken's.

THE FIR TREE

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Out in the forest stood a pretty little
Fir Tree. It had a good place; it could
have sunlight, air there was in plenty,
and all around grew many larger comrades—pines
as well as firs. But the
little Fir Tree wished ardently to become
greater. It did not care for the warm
sun and the fresh air; it took no notice
of the peasant children, who went about
talking together, when they had come
out to look for strawberries and raspberries.
Often they came with a whole
pot-full, or had strung berries on a straw;
then they would sit down by the little
Fir Tree and say, "How pretty and
small that one is!" and the Fir Tree
did not like to hear that at all.

Next year he had grown a great joint,
and the following year he was longer
still, for in fir trees one can always tell
by the number of rings they have how
many years they have been growing.

"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as
the other!" sighed the little Fir, "then
I would spread my branches far around,
and look out from my crown into the
wide world. The birds would then build
nests in my boughs, and when the wind
blew I could nod just as grandly as the
others yonder."

It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in
the birds, and in the red clouds that
went sailing over him morning and
evening.

When it was winter, and the snow lay
all around, white and sparkling, a hare
would often come jumping along, and
spring right over the little Fir Tree.
Oh! this made him so angry. But two
winters went by, and when the third
came the little Tree had grown so tall
that the hare was obliged to run round it.

"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old;
that's the only fine thing in the world,"
thought the Tree.

In the autumn woodcutters always
came and felled a few of the largest
trees; that was done this year too, and
the little Fir Tree, that was now quite
well grown, shuddered with fear, for the[191]
great stately trees fell to the ground
with a crash, and their branches were
cut off, so that the trees looked quite
naked, long, and slender—they could
hardly be recognized. But then they
were laid upon wagons, and horses
dragged them away out of the wood.
Where were they going? What destiny
awaited them?

In the spring, when the Swallows and
the Stork came, the Tree asked them,
"Do you know where they were taken?
Did you not meet them?"

The Swallows knew nothing about it,
but the Stork looked thoughtful, nodded
his head, and said:

"Yes, I think so. I met many new
ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the
ships were stately masts; I fancy these
were the trees. They smelt like fir. I
can assure you they're stately—very
stately."

"Oh that I were only big enough to
go over the sea! What kind of thing
is this sea, and how does it look?"

"It would take too long to explain all
that," said the Stork, and he went away.

"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams;
"rejoice in thy fresh growth, and
in the young life that is within thee."

And the wind kissed the Tree, and the
dew wept tears upon it; but the Fir
Tree did not understand that.

When Christmas-time approached,
quite young trees were felled, sometimes
trees which were neither so old nor so
large as this Fir Tree, that never rested,
but always wanted to go away. These
young trees, which were always the most
beautiful, kept all their branches; they
were put upon wagons, and horses
dragged them away out of the wood.

"Where are they all going?" asked the
Fir Tree. "They are not greater than
I—indeed, one of them was much
smaller. Why do they keep all their
branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know that! We know that!"
chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the
town we looked in at the windows. We
know where they go. Oh! they are
dressed up in the greatest pomp and
splendor that can be imagined. We
have looked in at the windows, and have
perceived that they are planted in the
middle of a warm room, and adorned
with the most beautiful things—gilt
apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and
many hundred candles."

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and
trembled through all its branches. "And
then? What happens then?"

"Why, we have not seen anything
more. But it was incomparable."

"Perhaps I may be destined to tread
this glorious path one day!" cried the
Fir Tree, rejoicingly. "That is even
better than traveling across the sea.
How painfully I long for it! If it were
only Christmas now! Now I am great
and grown up, like the rest who were
led away last year. Oh, if I were only
on the carriage! If I were only in the
warm room, among all the pomp and
splendor! And then? Yes, then something
even better will come, something
far more charming, or else why should
they adorn me so? There must be something
grander, something greater still
to come; but what? Oh! I'm suffering,
I'm longing! I don't know myself what
is the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine.
"Rejoice in thy fresh youth here in the
woodland."

But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all,
but it grew and grew; winter and summer
it stood there, green, dark green. The[192]
people who saw it said, "That's a handsome
tree!" and at Christmas time it
was felled before any one of the others.
The ax cut deep into its marrow, and
the tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it
felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and
could not think at all of happiness, for
it was sad at parting from its home,
from the place where it had grown up;
it knew that it should never again see
the dear old companions, the little bushes
and flowers all around—perhaps not
even the birds. The parting was not at
all agreeable.

The Tree only came to itself when it
was unloaded in a yard, with other trees,
and heard a man say:

"This one is famous; we want only
this one!"

Now two servants came in gay liveries,
and carried the Fir Tree into a large,
beautiful saloon. All around the walls
hung pictures, and by the great stove
stood large Chinese vases with lions on
the covers; there were rocking-chairs,
silken sofas, great tables covered with
picture books, and toys worth a hundred
times a hundred dollars, at least the
children said so. And the Fir Tree was
put into a great tub filled with sand; but
no one could see that it was a tub,
for it was hung round with green cloth,
and stood on a large, many-colored
carpet. Oh, how the Tree trembled!
What was to happen now? The servants,
and the young ladies also, decked it out.
On one branch they hung little nets, cut
out of colored paper; every net was
filled with sweetmeats; golden apples
and walnuts hung down, as if they grew
there, and more than a hundred little
candles, red, white, and blue, were
fastened to the different boughs. Dolls
that looked exactly like real people—the
tree had never seen such before—swung
among the foliage, and high on the summit
of the Tree was fixed a tinsel star.
It was splendid, particularly splendid.

"This evening," said all, "this evening
it will shine."

"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were
evening already! Oh, that the lights
may be soon lit up! When may that be
done? I wonder if trees will come out
of the forest to look at me? Will the
sparrows fly against the panes? Shall I
grow fast here, and stand adorned in
summer and winter?"

Yes, he did not guess badly. But he
had a complete backache from mere
longing, and the backache is just as
bad for a Tree as the headache for a
person.

At last the candles were lighted.
What a brilliance, what splendor! The
Tree trembled so in all its branches that
one of the candles set fire to a green
twig, and it was scorched.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young
ladies; and they hastily put the fire out.

Now the Tree might not even tremble.
Oh, that was terrible! It was so afraid
of setting fire to some of its ornaments,
and it was quite bewildered with all the
brilliance. And now the folding doors
were thrown open, and a number of
children rushed in as if they would have
overturned the whole Tree; the older
people followed more deliberately. The
little ones stood quite silent, but only
for a minute; then they shouted till the
room rang: they danced gleefully round
the Tree, and one present after another
was plucked from it.

"What are they about?" thought the
Tree. "What's going to be done?"

And the candles burned down to the
twigs, and as they burned down they[193]
were extinguished, and then the children
received permission to plunder the Tree.
Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that
every branch cracked again: if it had not
been fastened by the top and by the
golden star to the ceiling, it would have
fallen down.

The children danced about with their
pretty toys. No one looked at the Tree
except one old man, who came up and
peeped among the branches, but only to
see if a fig or an apple had not been
forgotten.

"A story! A story!" shouted the
children; and they drew a little fat man
toward the tree; and he sat down just
beneath it—"for then we shall be in
the green wood," said he, "and the tree
may have the advantage of listening to
my tale. But I can only tell one. Will
you hear the story of Ivede-Avede, or
of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs,
and still was raised up to honor
and married the Princess?"

"Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!"
cried others, and there
was a great crying and shouting. Only
the Fir Tree was quite silent, and
thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall
I have nothing to do in it?" But he
had been in the evening's amusement,
and had done what was required of
him.

And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey
who fell downstairs, and yet
was raised to honor and married the
Princess. And the children clapped their
hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell
another!" for they wanted to hear about
Ivede-Avede; but they only got the
story of Klumpey-Dumpey. The Fir
Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful;
never had the birds in the wood told
such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey
fell downstairs, and yet came to honor
and married the Princess!

"Yes, so it happens in the world!"
thought the Fir Tree, and believed it
must be true, because that was such a
nice man who told it. "Well, who can
know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs,
too, and marry a Princess!" And it
looked forward with pleasure to being
adorned again, the next evening, with
candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow
I shall not tremble," it thought.

"I will rejoice in all my splendor.
To-morrow I shall hear the story of
Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps
that of Ivede-Avede, too."

And the Tree stood all night quiet
and thoughtful.

In the morning the servants and the
chambermaid came in.

"Now my splendor will begin afresh,"
thought the Tree. But they dragged
him out of the room, and upstairs to the
garret, and here they put him in a dark
corner where no daylight shone.

"What's the meaning of this?" thought
the Tree. "What am I to do here?
What is to happen?"

And he leaned against the wall, and
thought, and thought. And he had
time enough, for days and nights went
by, and nobody came up; and when at
length someone came, it was only to
put some great boxes in a corner. Now
the Tree stood quite hidden away, and
the supposition is that it was quite
forgotten.

"Now it's winter outside," thought
the Tree. "The earth is hard and
covered with snow, and people cannot
plant me; therefore I suppose I'm to
be sheltered here until spring comes.
How considerate that is! How good
people are! If it were only not so dark[194]
here, and so terribly solitary!—not even
a little hare? That was pretty out there
in the wood, when the snow lay thick
and the hare sprang past; yes, even
when he jumped over me; but then I
did not like it. It is terribly lonely up
here!"

"Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and
crept forward, and then came another
little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree,
and then slipped among the branches.

"It's horribly cold," said the two little
Mice, "or else it would be comfortable
here. Don't you think so, you old Fir
Tree?"

"I'm not old at all," said the Fir
Tree. "There are many much older
than I."

"Where do you come from?" asked
the Mice. "And what do you know?"
They were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell
us about the most beautiful spot on earth.
Have you been there? Have you been in
the store room, where cheeses lie on the
shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling,
where one dances on tallow candles, and
goes in thin and comes out fat?"

"I don't know that," replied the
Tree; "but I know the wood, where
the sun shines and the birds sing."

And then it told all about its youth.

And the little Mice had never heard
anything of the kind; and they listened
and said:

"What a number of things you have
seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it
thought about what it had told. "Yes,
those were really quite happy times."
But then he told of the Christmas Eve,
when he had been hung with sweetmeats
and candles.

"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how
happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"

"I'm not old at all," said the Tree.
"I only came out of the wood this winter.
I'm only rather backward in my growth."

"What splendid stories you can tell!"
said the little Mice.

And next night they came with four
other little Mice, to hear what the Tree
had to relate; and the more it said,
the more clearly did it remember everything,
and thought, "Those were quite
merry days! But they may come again.
Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and
yet he married the Princess. Perhaps
I may marry a Princess too!" And
the Fir Tree thought of a pretty little
Birch Tree that grew out in the forest;
for the Fir Tree, that Birch was a real
Princess.

"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked
the little Mice.

And then the Fir Tree told the whole
story. It could remember every single
word; and the little Mice were ready to
leap to the very top of the tree with
pleasure. Next night a great many more
Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats
even appeared; but these thought the
story was not pretty, and the little Mice
were sorry for that, for now they also
did not like it so much as before.

"Do you only know one story?"
asked the Rats.

"Only that one," replied the Tree.
"I heard that on the happiest evening
of my life; I did not think then how
happy I was."

"That's a very miserable story. Don't
you know any about bacon and tallow
candles—a store-room story?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then we'd rather not hear you,"
said the Rats.

And they went back to their own
people. The little Mice at last stayed[195]
away also; and then the Tree sighed
and said:

"It was very nice when they sat
round me, the merry little Mice, and
listened when I spoke to them. Now
that's past too. But I shall remember
to be pleased when they take me out."

But when did that happen? Why, it
was one morning that people came and
rummaged in the garret: the boxes were
put away, and the Tree brought out;
they certainly threw him rather roughly
on the floor, but a servant dragged him
away at once to the stairs, where the
daylight shone.

"Now life is beginning again!" thought
the Tree.

It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams,
and now it was out in the courtyard.
Everything passed so quickly that
the Tree quite forgot to look at itself,
there was so much to look at all round.
The courtyard was close to a garden,
and here everything was blooming; the
roses hung fresh and fragrant over the
little paling, the linden trees were in
blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit!
quinze-wit! my husband's come!"
But it was not the Fir Tree that they
meant.

"Now I shall live!" said the Tree,
rejoicingly, and spread its branches far
out; but, alas! they were all withered
and yellow; and it lay in the corner
among nettles and weeds. The tinsel
star was still upon it, and shone in the
bright sunshine.

In the courtyard a couple of the merry
children were playing who had danced
round the tree at Christmas time, and
had rejoiced over it. One of the youngest
ran up and tore off the golden star.

"Look what is sticking to the ugly
old fir tree!" said the child, and he
trod upon the branches till they cracked
again under his boots.

And the Tree looked at all the blooming
flowers and the splendor of the garden,
and then looked at itself, and wished it
had remained in the dark corner of the
garret; it thought of its fresh youth in
the wood, of the merry Christmas Eve,
and of the little Mice which had listened
so pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

"Past! past!" said the old Tree.
"Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"

And the servant came and chopped
the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there; it blazed brightly
under the great brewing copper, and it
sighed deeply, and each sigh was like
a little shot; and the children who were
at play there ran up and seated themselves
at the fire, looked into it, and
cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion,
which was a deep sigh, the Tree
thought of a summer day in the woods,
or of a winter night there, when the
stars beamed; he thought of Christmas
Eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only
story he had ever heard or knew how to
tell; and then the Tree was burned.

The boys played in the garden, and
the youngest had on his breast a golden
star, which the Tree had worn on its
happiest evening. Now that was past,
and the Tree's life was past, and the
story is past too: past! past!—and
that's the way with all stories.

The tale that follows was one of the author's
earliest stories, published in 1835. It is
clearly based upon an old folk tale, one
variant of which is "The Blue Light" from
the Grimm collection (No. 174). "It was[196]
a lucky stroke," says Brandes, "that made
Andersen the poet of children. After long
fumbling, after unsuccessful efforts, which
must necessarily throw a false and ironic
light on the self-consciousness of a poet
whose pride based its justification mainly
on the expectancy of a future which he
felt slumbering within his soul, after
wandering about for long years, Andersen
. . . one evening found himself in front
of a little insignificant yet mysterious door,
the door of the nursery story. He touched
it, it yielded, and he saw, burning in the
obscurity within, the little 'Tinder-Box'
that became his Aladdin's lamp. He struck
fire with it, and the spirits of the lamp—the
dogs with eyes as large as tea-cups, as
mill-wheels, as the round tower in Copenhagen—stood
before him and brought him
the three giant chests, containing all the
copper, silver, and gold treasure stories of
the nursery story. The first story had
sprung into existence, and the 'Tinder-Box'
drew all the others onward in its train.
Happy is he who has found his 'tinder-box.'"
The translation is by H. W.
Dulcken.

THE TINDER-BOX

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There came a soldier marching along
the high road—one, two! one, two! He
had his knapsack on his back and a saber
by his side, for he had been in the wars,
and now he wanted to go home. And on
the way he met with an old witch; she
was very hideous, and her under lip hung
down upon her breast. She said, "Good
evening, soldier. What a fine sword you
have, and what a big knapsack! You're
a proper soldier! Now you shall have
as much money as you like to have."

"I thank you, you old witch!" said
the soldier.

"Do you see that great tree?" quoth
the witch; and she pointed to a tree
which stood beside them. "It's quite
hollow inside. You must climb to the
top, and then you'll see a hole, through
which you can let yourself down and
get deep into the tree. I'll tie a rope
round your body, so that I can pull you
up again when you call me."

"What am I to do down in the tree?"
asked the soldier.

"Get money," replied the witch.
"Listen to me. When you come down
to the earth under the tree, you will
find yourself in a great hall: it is quite
light, for above three hundred lamps are
burning there. Then you will see three
doors; those you can open, for the keys
are hanging there. If you go into the
first chamber, you'll see a great chest
in the middle of the floor; on this chest
sits a dog, and he's got a pair of eyes
as big as two tea-cups. But you need
not care for that. I'll give you my
blue-checked apron, and you can spread
it out upon the floor; then go up quickly
and take the dog, and set him on my
apron; then open the chest, and take
as many shillings as you like. They are
of copper: if you prefer silver, you must
go into the second chamber. But there
sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as
mill-wheels. But do not you care for
that. Set him upon my apron, and take
some of the money. And if you want
gold, you can have that too—in fact,
as much as you can carry—if you go
into the third chamber. But the dog
that sits on the money-chest there has
two eyes as big as round towers. He is
a fierce dog, you may be sure; but you
needn't be afraid, for all that. Only
set him on my apron, and he won't
hurt you; and take out of the chest as
much gold as you like."[197]

"That's not so bad," said the soldier.
"But what am I to give you, old witch?
for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy."

"No," replied the witch, "not a single
shilling will I have. You shall only
bring me an old tinder-box which my
grandmother forgot when she was down
there last."

"Then tie the rope round my body,"
cried the soldier.

"Here it is," said the witch, "and
here's my blue-checked apron."

Then the soldier climbed up into the
tree, let himself slip down into the hole,
and stood, as the witch had said, in the
great hall where the three hundred lamps
were burning.

Now he opened the first door. Ugh!
there sat the dog with eyes as big as
tea-cups, staring at him. "You're a
nice fellow!" exclaimed the soldier; and
he set him on the witch's apron, and
took as many copper shillings as his
pockets would hold, and then locked
the chest, set the dog on it again, and
went into the second chamber. Aha!
there sat the dog with eyes as big as
mill-wheels.

"You should not stare so hard at
me," said the soldier; "you might strain
your eyes." And he set the dog upon
the witch's apron. And when he saw
the silver money in the chest, he threw
away all the copper money he had, and
filled his pocket and his knapsack with
silver only. Then he went into the
third chamber. Oh, but that was horrid!
The dog there really had eyes as big as
towers, and they turned round and
round in his head like wheels.

"Good evening!" said the soldier; and
he touched his cap, for he had never
seen such a dog as that before. When
he had looked at him a little more closely,
he thought, "That will do," and lifted
him down to the floor, and opened the
chest. Mercy! what a quantity of gold
was there! He could buy with it the
whole town, and the sugar sucking-pigs
of the cake woman, and all the tin
soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses in the
whole world. Yes, that was a quantity
of money! Now the soldier threw away
all the silver coin with which he had
filled his pockets and his knapsack, and
took gold instead: yes, all his pockets, his
knapsack, his boots, and his cap were
filled, so that he could scarcely walk.
Now indeed he had plenty of money.
He put the dog on the chest, shut the
door, and then called up through the
tree, "Now pull me up, you old witch."

"Have you the tinder-box?" asked
the witch.

"Plague on it!" exclaimed the soldier,
"I had clean forgotten that." And he
went and brought it.

The witch drew him up, and he stood
on the high road again, with pockets,
boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold.

"Nonsense!" said the soldier. "Tell
me directly what you're going to do
with it, or I'll draw my sword and cut
off your head."

"No!" cried the witch.

So the soldier cut off her head. There
she lay! But he tied up all his money
in her apron, took it on his back like a
bundle, put the tinder-box in his pocket,
and went straight off toward the town.

That was a splendid town! And he
put up at the very best inn and asked
for the finest rooms, and ordered his[198]
favorite dishes, for now he was rich, as
he had so much money. The servant
who had to clean his boots certainly
thought them a remarkably old pair for
such a rich gentleman; but he had not
bought any new ones yet. The next
day he procured proper boots and handsome
clothes. Now our soldier had
become a fine gentleman; and the people
told him of all the splendid things which
were in their city, and about the King,
and what a pretty Princess the King's
daughter was.

"Where can one get to see her?"
asked the soldier.

"She is not to be seen at all," said
they, all together; "she lives in a great
copper castle, with a great many walls
and towers round about it; no one but
the King may go in and out there, for
it has been prophesied that she shall
marry a common soldier, and the King
can't bear that."

"I should like to see her," thought the
soldier; but he could not get leave to
do so. Now he lived merrily, went to
the theater, drove in the King's garden,
and gave much money to the poor; and
this was very kind of him, for he knew
from old times how hard it is when one
has not a shilling. Now he was rich,
had fine clothes, and gained many
friends, who all said he was a rare one,
a true cavalier; and that pleased the
soldier well. But as he spent money
every day and never earned any, he
had at last only two shillings left; and
he was obliged to turn out of the fine
rooms in which he had dwelt, and had
to live in a little garret under the roof,
and clean his boots for himself, and mend
them with a darning-needle. None of
his friends came to see him, for there
were too many stairs to climb.

It was quite dark one evening, and
he could not even buy himself a candle,
when it occurred to him that there was a
candle-end in the tinder-box which he
had taken out of the hollow tree into
which the witch had helped him. He
brought out the tinder-box and the
candle-end; but as soon as he struck
fire and the sparks rose up from the
flint, the door flew open, and the dog
who had eyes as big as a couple of tea-cups,
and whom he had seen in the tree,
stood before him, and said:

"What are my lord's commands?"

"What is this?" said the soldier.
"That's a famous tinder-box, if I can
get everything with it that I want!
Bring me some money," said he to the
dog: and whisk! the dog was gone, and
whisk! he was back again, with a great
bag full of shillings in his mouth.

Now the soldier knew what a capital
tinder-box this was. If he struck it
once, the dog came who sat upon the
chest of copper money; if he struck it
twice, the dog came who had the silver;
and if he struck it three times, then
appeared the dog who had the gold.
Now the soldier moved back into the fine
rooms, and appeared again in handsome
clothes; and all his friends knew him again,
and cared very much for him indeed.

Once he thought to himself, "It is a
very strange thing that one cannot get
to see the Princess. They all say she is
very beautiful; but what is the use of
that, if she has always to sit in the great
copper castle with the many towers?
Can I not get to see her at all? Where
is my tinder-box?" And so he struck
a light, and whisk! came the dog with
eyes as big as tea-cups.

"It is midnight, certainly," said the
soldier, "but I should very much like[199]
to see the Princess, only for one little
moment."

And the dog was outside the door
directly, and, before the soldier thought
it, came back with the Princess. She
sat upon the dog's back and slept; and
everyone could see she was a real Princess,
for she was so lovely. The soldier
could not refrain from kissing her, for
he was a thorough soldier. Then the
dog ran back again with the Princess.
But when morning came, and the King
and Queen were drinking tea, the Princess
said she had had a strange dream,
the night before, about a dog and a
soldier—that she had ridden upon the
dog, and the soldier had kissed her.

"That would be a fine history!" said
the Queen.

So one of the old Court ladies had to
watch the next night by the Princess's
bed, to see if this was really a dream, or
what it might be.

The soldier had a great longing to see
the lovely Princess again; so the dog
came in the night, took her away, and
ran as fast as he could. But the old
lady put on water-boots, and ran just
as fast after him. When she saw that
they both entered a great house, she
thought, "Now I know where it is";
and with a bit of chalk she drew a great
cross on the door. Then she went home
and lay down, and the dog came up
with the Princess; but when he saw that
there was a cross drawn on the door
where the soldier lived, he took a piece
of chalk too, and drew crosses on all
the doors in the town. And that was
cleverly done, for now the lady could not
find the right door, because all the doors
had crosses upon them.

In the morning early came the King
and the Queen, the old Court lady and
all the officers, to see where it was the
Princess had been. "Here it is!" said
the King, when he saw the first door
with a cross upon it. "No, my dear
husband, it is there!" said the Queen,
who descried another door which also
showed a cross. "But there is one, and
there is one!" said all, for wherever they
looked there were crosses on the doors.
So they saw that it would avail them
nothing if they searched on.

But the Queen was an exceedingly
clever woman, who could do more than
ride in a coach. She took her great
gold scissors, cut a piece of silk into
pieces, and made a neat little bag: this
bag she filled with fine wheat flour, and
tied it on the Princess's back; and when
that was done, she cut a little hole in
the bag, so that the flour would be
scattered along all the way which the
Princess should take.

In the night the dog came again, took
the Princess on his back, and ran with
her to the soldier, who loved her very
much, and would gladly have been a
prince, so that he might have her for
his wife. The dog did not notice at all
how the flour ran out in a stream from
the castle to the windows of the soldier's
house, where he ran up the wall with
the Princess. In the morning the King
and Queen saw well enough where their
daughter had been, and they took the
soldier and put him in prison.

There he sat. Oh, but it was dark
and disagreeable there! And they said
to him, "To-morrow you shall be hanged."
That was not amusing to hear, and he
had left his tinder-box at the inn. In
the morning he could see, through the
iron grating of the little window, how
the people were hurrying out of the
town to see him hanged. He heard the[200]
drums beat and saw the soldiers marching.
All the people were running out,
and among them was a shoemaker's boy
with leather apron and slippers, and he
galloped so fast that one of his slippers
flew off, and came right against the wall
where the soldier sat looking through
the iron grating.

"Halloo, you shoemaker's boy! you
needn't be in such a hurry," cried the
soldier to him: "it will not begin till I
come. But if you will run to where I
lived, and bring me my tinder-box, you
shall have four shillings; but you must
put your best leg foremost."

The shoemaker's boy wanted to get
the four shillings, so he went and
brought the tinder-box, and—well, we
shall hear now what happened.

Outside the town a great gallows had
been built, and around it stood the
soldiers and many hundred thousand
people. The King and Queen sat on
a splendid throne, opposite to the
Judges and the whole Council. The
soldier already stood upon the ladder;
but as they were about to put the rope
round his neck, he said that before a
poor criminal suffered his punishment
an innocent request was always granted
to him. He wanted very much to smoke
a pipe of tobacco, as it would be the last
pipe he should smoke in this world.
The King would not say "No" to this;
so the soldier took his tinder-box and
struck fire. One—two—three—! and
there suddenly stood all the dogs—the
one with eyes as big as tea-cups, the one
with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and
the one whose eyes were as big as round
towers.

"Help me now, so that I may not
be hanged," said the soldier. And the
dogs fell upon the Judge and all the
Council, seized one by the leg and another
by the nose, and tossed them all many
feet into the air, so that they fell down
and were all broken to pieces.

"I won't!" cried the King; but the
biggest dog took him and the Queen and
threw them after the others. Then the
soldiers were afraid, and the people cried,
"Little soldier, you shall be our King,
and marry the beautiful Princess!"

So they put the soldier into the King's
coach, and all the three dogs darted on
in front and cried "Hurrah!" and the
boys whistled through their fingers, and
the soldiers presented arms. The Princess
came out of the copper castle, and
became Queen, and she liked that well
enough. The wedding lasted a week,
and the three dogs sat at the table too,
and opened their eyes wider than ever
at all they saw.

The following is one of Andersen's early
stories, published in 1838. It has always
been a great favorite. Whimsically odd
couples, in this case so constant in their
devotion to each other, seemed to appeal
to Andersen. The romance of the Whip
Top and the Ball in the little story "The
Lovers" deals with another odd couple.
"Constant" or "steadfast" are terms sometimes
used in the different versions instead
of "hardy," and, if they seem better to
carry the meaning intended, teachers
should feel free to substitute one of them
in telling or reading the story. The translation
is by H. W. Dulcken.

THE HARDY TIN SOLDIER

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There were once five-and-twenty tin
soldiers; they were all brothers, for they
had all been born of one old tin spoon.[201]
They shouldered their muskets, and
looked straight before them; their uniform
was red and blue, and very splendid.
The first thing they had heard in the
world, when the lid was taken off their
box, had been the words, "Tin soldiers!"
These words were uttered by a little boy,
clapping his hands: the soldiers had been
given to him, for it was his birthday;
and now he put them upon the table.
Each soldier was exactly like the rest;
but one of them had been cast last of
all, and there had not been enough tin
to finish him; but he stood as firmly
upon his one leg as the others on their
two; and it was just this Soldier who
became remarkable.

On the table on which they had been
placed stood many other playthings, but
the toy that attracted most attention
was a neat castle of cardboard. Through
the little windows one could see straight
into the hall. Before the castle some
little trees were placed round a little
looking-glass, which was to represent
a clear lake. Waxen swans swam on
this lake, and were mirrored in it. This
was all very pretty; but the prettiest
of all was a little lady, who stood at
the open door of the castle; she was
also cut out in paper, but she had a
dress of the clearest gauze, and a little
narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders,
that looked like a scarf; and in the
middle of this ribbon was a shining
tinsel rose as big as her whole face.
The little lady stretched out both her
arms, for she was a dancer; and then she
lifted one leg so high that the Tin
Soldier could not see it at all, and
thought that, like himself, she had but
one leg.

"That would be the wife for me,"
thought he; "but she is very grand.
She lives in a castle, and I have only a
box, and there are five-and-twenty of us
in that. It is no place for her. But I
must try to make acquaintance with her."

And then he lay down at full length
behind a snuff-box which was on the
table; there he could easily watch the
little dainty lady, who continued to
stand upon one leg without losing her
balance.

When the evening came all the other
tin soldiers were put into their box, and
the people in the house went to bed.
Now the toys began to play at "visiting,"
and at "war," and "giving balls." The
tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they
wanted to join, but could not lift the
lid. The nutcracker threw somersaults,
and the pencil amused itself on the table;
there was so much noise that the canary
woke up, and began to speak too, and
even in verse. The only two who did
not stir from their places were the Tin
Soldier and the Dancing Lady: she
stood straight up on the point of one of
her toes, and stretched out both her
arms; and he was just as enduring on
his one leg; and he never turned his
eyes away from her.

Now the clock struck twelve—and,
bounce! the lid flew off the snuff-box;
but there was no snuff in it, but a little
black Goblin: you see, it was a trick.

"Tin Soldier!" said the Goblin, "don't
stare at things that don't concern you."

But the Tin Soldier pretended not to
hear him.

"Just you wait till to-morrow!" said
the Goblin.

But when the morning came, and the
children got up, the Tin Soldier was
placed in the window; and whether it
was the Goblin or the draught that did
it, all at once the window flew open,[202]
and the Soldier fell head over heels out
of the third story. That was a terrible
passage! He put his leg straight up,
and stuck with helmet downward and
his bayonet between the paving-stones.

The servant-maid and the little boy
came down directly to look for him, but
though they almost trod upon him, they
could not see him. If the Soldier had
cried out "Here I am!" they would have
found him; but he did not think it
fitting to call out loudly, because he
was in uniform.

Now it began to rain; the drops soon
fell thicker, and at last it came down into
a complete stream. When the rain was
past, two street boys came by.

"Just look!" said one of them, "there
lies a Tin Soldier. He must come out
and ride in the boat."

And they made a boat out of a newspaper,
and put the Tin Soldier in the
middle of it, and so he sailed down the
gutter, and the two boys ran beside him
and clapped their hands. Goodness preserve
us! how the waves rose in that
gutter, and how fast the stream ran!
But then it had been a heavy rain. The
paper boat rocked up and down, and
sometimes turned round so rapidly that
the Tin Soldier trembled; but he
remained firm, and never changed countenance,
and looked straight before him,
and shouldered his musket.

All at once the boat went into a long
drain, and it became as dark as if he had
been in his box.

"Where am I going now?" he thought.
"Yes, yes, that's the Goblin's fault.
Ah! if the little lady only sat here with
me in the boat, it might be twice as dark
for what I should care."

Suddenly there came a great Water
Rat, which lived under the drain.

"Have you a passport?" said the Rat.
"Give me your passport."

But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and
held his musket tighter than ever.

The boat went on, but the Rat came
after it. Hu! how he gnashed his teeth,
and called out to the bits of straw and
wood:

But the stream became stronger and
stronger. The Tin Soldier could see the
bright daylight where the arch ended;
but he heard a roaring noise which
might well frighten a bolder man. Only
think—just where the tunnel ended, the
drain ran into a great canal; and for
him that would have been as dangerous
as for us to be carried down a great
waterfall.

Now he was already so near it that
he could not stop. The boat was carried
out, the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself
as much as he could, and no one
could say that he moved an eyelid. The
boat whirled round three or four times,
and was full of water to the very edge—it
must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up
to his neck in water, and the boat sank
deeper and deeper, and the paper was
loosened more and more; and now the
water closed over the soldier's head.
Then he thought of the pretty little
Dancer, and how he should never see
her again; and it sounded in the soldier's
ears:

Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,For this day thou must die!

And now the paper parted, and the
Tin Soldier fell out; but at that moment
he was snapped up by a great fish.

Oh, how dark it was in that fish's
body! It was darker yet than in the[203]
drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow
too. But the Tin Soldier remained
unmoved, and lay at full length shouldering
his musket.

The fish swam to and fro; he made the
most wonderful movements, and then
became quite still. At last something
flashed through him like lightning. The
daylight shone quite clear, and a voice
said aloud, "The Tin Soldier!" The
fish had been caught, carried to market,
bought, and taken into the kitchen,
where the cook cut him open with a
large knife. She seized the Soldier
round the body with both her hands
and carried him into the room, where
all were anxious to see the remarkable
man who had traveled about in the
inside of a fish; but the Tin Soldier was
not at all proud. They placed him on
the table, and there—no! What curious
things may happen in the world. The
Tin Soldier was in the very room in
which he had been before! He saw the
same children, and the same toys stood
on the table; and there was the pretty
castle with the graceful little Dancer.
She was still balancing herself on one
leg, and held the other extended in the
air. She was hardy too. That moved
the Tin Soldier; he was very nearly
weeping tin tears, but that would not
have been proper. He looked at her,
but they said nothing to each other.

Then one of the little boys took the
Tin Soldier and flung him into the stove.
He gave no reason for doing this. It
must have been the fault of the Goblin
in the snuff-box.

The Tin Soldier stood there quite
illuminated, and felt a heat that was
terrible; but whether this heat proceeded
from the real fire or from love he did not
know. The colors had quite gone off
from him; but whether that had happened
on the journey, or had been
caused by grief, no one could say. He
looked at the little lady, she looked at
him, and he felt that he was melting;
but he still stood firm, shouldering his
musket. Then suddenly the door flew
open, and the draught of air caught the
Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just
into the stove to the Tin Soldier, and
flashed up in a flame, and she was gone.
Then the Tin Soldier melted down into a
lump; and when the servant-maid took
the ashes out next day, she found him
in the shape of a little tin heart. But
of the Dancer nothing remained but the
tinsel rose, and that was burned as
black as a coal.

"The Ugly Duckling" has always been
regarded as one of Andersen's most exquisite
stories. No one can fail to notice the
parallel that suggests itself between the
successive stages in the duckling's history
and those in Andersen's own life. In this
story, remarks Dr. Brandes, "there is the
quintessence of the author's entire life
(melancholy, humor, martyrdom, triumph)
and of his whole nature: the gift of observation
and the sparkling intellect which
he used to avenge himself upon folly and
wickedness, the varied faculties which constitute
his genius." The standards of
judgment used by the ducks, the turkey,
the hen, and the cat are all delightfully
and humorously satirical of human stupidity
and shortsightedness. The translation
used is by H. W. Dulcken.

THE UGLY DUCKLING

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

It was glorious out in the country. It
was summer, and the cornfields were
yellow, and the oats were green; the hay[204]
had been put up in stacks in the green
meadows, and the stork went about on
his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian,
for this was the language he had learned
from his good mother. All around the
fields and meadows were great forests,
and in the midst of these forests lay deep
lakes. Yes, it was really glorious out
in the country. In the midst of the sunshine
there lay an old farm, surrounded
by deep canals, and from the wall down
to the water grew great burdocks, so high
that little children could stand upright
under the loftiest of them. It was just
as wild there as in the deepest wood.
Here sat a Duck upon her nest, for she
had to hatch her young ones; but she was
almost tired out before the little ones came;
and then she so seldom had visitors. The
other ducks liked better to swim about
in the canals than to run up to sit down
under a burdock and cackle with her.

At last one eggshell after another burst
open. "Piep! piep!" it cried, and in all
the eggs there were little creatures that
stuck out their heads.

"Rap! rap!" they said; and they all
came rapping out as fast as they could,
looking all round them under the green
leaves; and the mother let them look as
much as they chose, for green is good for
the eyes.

"How wide the world is!" said the
young ones, for they certainly had much
more room now than when they were in
the eggs.

"Do you think this is all the world!"
asked the mother. "That extends far
across the other side of the garden, quite
into the parson's field, but I have never
been there yet. I hope you are all together,"
she continued, and stood up.
"No, I have not all. The largest egg
still lies there. How long is that to last?
I am really tired of it." And she sat
down again.

"Well, how goes it?" asked an old
Duck who had come to pay her a visit.

"It lasts a long time with that one
egg," said the Duck who sat there. "It
will not burst. Now, only look at the
others; are they not the prettiest ducks
one could possibly see? They are all
like their father; the bad fellow never
comes to see me."

"Let me see the egg which will not
burst," said the old visitor. "Believe
me, it is a turkey's egg. I was once
cheated in that way, and had much
anxiety and trouble with the young ones,
for they are afraid of the water. I could
not get them to venture in. I quacked
and clucked, but it was of no use. Let
me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's
egg! Let it lie there, and you teach the
other children to swim."

"I think I will sit on it a little longer,"
said the Duck. "I've sat so long now
that I can sit a few days more."

"Just as you please," said the old Duck;
and she went away.

At last the great egg burst. "Piep!
piep!" said the little one, and crept forth.
It was very large and very ugly. The
Duck looked at it.

"It's a very large duckling," said she;
"none of the others look like that; can
it really be a turkey chick? Now we
shall soon find out. It must go into
the water, even if I have to thrust it
in myself."

The next day the weather was splendidly
bright, and the sun shone on all the
green trees. The Mother-Duck went
down to the water with all her little ones.
Splash! she jumped into the water.
"Quack! quack!" she said, and then one
duckling after another plunged in. The[205]
water closed over their heads, but they
came up in an instant, and swam capitally;
their legs went of themselves, and
there they were, all in the water. The
ugly gray Duckling swam with them.

"No, it's not a turkey," said she;
"look how well it can use its legs, and
how upright it holds itself. It is my own
child! On the whole it's quite pretty,
if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack!
come with me, and I'll lead you out into
the great world, and present you in the
poultry-yard; but keep close to me, so
that no one may tread on you; and take
care of the cats!"

And so they came into the poultry-yard.
There was a terrible riot going on
in there, for two families were quarreling
about an eel's head, and the cat got it
after all.

"See, that's how it goes in the world!"
said the Mother-Duck; and she whetted
her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's
head. "Only use your legs," she said.
"See that you bustle about, and bow your
heads before the old Duck yonder.
She's the grandest of all here; she's of
Spanish blood—that's why she's so fat;
and do you see, she has a red rag round
her leg; that's something particularly
fine, and the greatest distinction a duck
can enjoy; it signifies that one does not
want to lose her, and that she's to be
recognized by man and beast. Shake
yourselves—don't turn in your toes; a
well-brought-up Duck turns its toes
quite out, just like father and mother, so!
Now bend your necks and say 'Rap!'"

And they did so; but the other Ducks
round about looked at them, and said
quite boldly:

"Look there! now we're to have these
hanging on, as if there were not enough
of us already! And—fie—! how that
Duckling yonder looks; we won't stand
that!" And one duck flew up immediately,
and bit it in the neck.

"Let it alone," said the mother; "it
does no harm to anyone."

"Yes, but it's too large and peculiar,"
said the Duck who had bitten it; "and
therefore it must be buffeted."

"Those are pretty children that the
mother has there," said the old Duck
with the rag round her leg. "They're
all pretty but that one; that was a failure.
I wish she could alter it."

"That cannot be done, my lady,"
replied the Mother-Duck. "It is not
pretty, but it has a really good disposition,
and swims as well as any other; I
may even say it swims better. I think
it will grow up pretty, and become
smaller in time; it has lain too long in
the egg, and therefore is not properly
shaped." And then she pinched it in
the neck, and smoothed its feathers.
"Moreover, it is a drake," she said, "and
therefore it is not of so much consequence.
I think he will be very strong; he makes
his way already."

"The other ducklings are graceful
enough," said the old Duck. "Make
yourself at home; and if you find an eel's
head, you may bring it me."

And now they were at home. But
the poor Duckling which had crept last
out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was
bitten and pushed and jeered, as much by
the ducks as by the chickens.

"It is too big!" they all said. And
the turkey-cock, who had been born
with spurs, and therefore thought himself
an Emperor, blew himself up like a ship
in full sail, and bore straight down upon
it; then he gobbled, and grew quite red
in the face. The poor Duckling did not
know where it should stand or walk;[206]
it was quite melancholy, because it looked
ugly and was scoffed at by the whole yard.

So it went on the first day; and afterward
it became worse and worse. The
poor Duckling was hunted about by
every one; even its brothers and sisters
were quite angry with it, and said, "If
the cat would only catch you, you ugly
creature!" And the mother said, "If you
were only far away!" And the ducks bit
it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl
who had to feed the poultry kicked at it
with her foot.

Then it ran and flew over the fence,
and the little birds in the bushes flew up
in fear.

"That is because I am so ugly!"
thought the Duckling; and it shut its
eyes, but flew no farther; thus it came
out into the great moor, where the Wild
Ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night
long; and it was weary and downcast.

Toward morning the Wild Ducks flew
up, and looked at their new companion.

"What sort of a one are you?" they
asked; and the Duckling turned in every
direction, and bowed as well as it could.
"You are remarkably ugly!" said the
Wild Ducks. "But that is very indifferent
to us, so long as you do not marry
into our family."

Poor thing! It certainly did not think
of marrying, and only hoped to obtain
leave to lie among the reeds and drink
some of the swamp-water.

Thus it lay two whole days; then came
thither two Wild Geese, or, properly
speaking, two wild ganders. It was not
long since each had crept out of an egg,
and that's why they were so saucy.

"Listen, comrade," said one of them.
"You're so ugly that I like you. Will
you go with us, and become a bird of
passage? Near here, in another moor,
there are a few sweet lovely wild geese,
all unmarried, and all able to say, 'Rap!'
You've a chance of making your fortune,
ugly as you are!"

"Piff! paff!" resounded through the
air; and the two ganders fell down dead
in the swamp, and the water became
blood-red. "Piff! paff!" it sounded
again, and whole flocks of wild geese rose
up from the reeds. And then there was
another report. A great hunt was going
on. The hunters were lying in wait all
round the moor, and some were even
sitting up in the branches of the trees,
which spread far over the reeds. The
blue smoke rose up like clouds among the
dark trees, and was wafted far away
across the water; and the hunting dogs
came—splash, splash!—into the swamp,
and the rushes and the reeds bent down
on every side. That was a fright for the
poor Duckling! It turned its head, and
put it under its wing; but at that moment
a frightful great dog stood close by the
Duckling. His tongue hung far out of
his mouth and his eyes gleamed horrible
and ugly; he thrust out his nose close
against the Duckling, showed his sharp
teeth, and—splash, splash!—on he went
without seizing it.

"Oh, Heaven be thanked!" sighed the
Duckling. "I am so ugly that even the
dog does not like to bite me!"

And so it lay quite quiet, while the
shots rattled through the reeds and gun
after gun was fired. At last, late in the
day, silence was restored; but the poor
Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited
several hours before it looked round, and
then hastened away out of the moor as
fast as it could. It ran on over field and
meadow; there was such a storm raging
that it was difficult to get from one place
to another.[207]

Toward evening the Duck came to a
little miserable peasant's hut. This hut
was so dilapidated that it did not know
on which side it should fall; and that's
why it remained standing. The storm
whistled round the Duckling in such a
way that the poor creature was obliged
to sit down, to stand against it; and the
tempest grew worse and worse. Then
the Duckling noticed that one of the
hinges of the door had given way, and
the door hung so slanting that the Duckling
could slip through the crack into the
room; and it did so.

Here lived a woman with her Tom Cat
and her Hen. And the Tom Cat, whom
she called Sonnie, could arch his back and
purr. He could even give out sparks; but
for that one had to stroke his fur the
wrong way. The Hen had quite little
short legs, and therefore she was called
Chickabiddy-shortshanks; she laid good
eggs, and the woman loved her as her
own child.

In the morning the strange Duckling
was at once noticed, and the Tom Cat
began to purr, and the Hen to cluck.

"What's this?" said the woman, and
looked all round; but she could not see
well, and therefore she thought the Duckling
was a fat duck that had strayed.
"This is a rare prize," she said. "Now
I shall have duck's eggs. I hope it is
not a drake. We must try that."

And so the Duckling was admitted on
trial for three weeks; but no eggs came.
And the Tom Cat was master of the
house, and the Hen was the lady, and
they always said, "We and the world!"
for they thought they were half the world,
and by far the better half. The Duckling
thought one might have a different
opinion, but the Hen would not allow it.

"Can you lay eggs?" she asked.

"No."

"Then you'll have the goodness to
hold your tongue."

And the Tom Cat said, "Can you curve
your back, and purr, and give out
sparks?"

"No."

"Then you cannot have any opinion
of your own when sensible people are
speaking."

And the Duckling sat in a corner and
was melancholy; then the fresh air and
the sunshine streamed in; and it was
seized with such a strange longing to swim
on the water that it could not help telling
the Hen of it.

"What are you thinking of?" cried the
Hen. "You have nothing to do; that's
why you have these fancies. Purr or
lay eggs, and they will pass over."

"But it is so charming to swim on the
water!" said the Duckling, "so refreshing
to let it close above one's head, and to
dive down to the bottom."

"Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure,
truly," quoth the Hen. "I fancy you
must have gone crazy. Ask the Cat
about it—he's the cleverest animal I
know—ask him if he likes to swim on
the water, or to dive down: I won't
speak about myself. Ask our mistress,
the old woman; no one in the world is
cleverer than she. Do you think she
has any desire to swim, and to let the
water close above her head?"

"You don't understand me," said the
Duckling.

"We don't understand you? Then
pray who is to understand you? You
surely don't pretend to be cleverer than
the Tom Cat and the old woman—I
won't say anything of myself. Don't be
conceited, child, and be grateful for all
the kindness you have received. Did[208]
you not get into a warm room, and have
you not fallen into company from which
you may learn something? But you are
a chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate
with you. You may believe me, I
speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable
things, and by that one may always
know one's true friends. Only take care
that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr and
give out sparks!"

"I think I will go out into the wide
world," said the Duckling.

"Yes, do go," replied the Hen.

And the Duckling went away. It
swam on the water, and dived, but it was
slighted by every creature because of its
ugliness.

Now came the autumn. The leaves
in the forest turned yellow and brown;
the wind caught them so that they danced
about, and up in the air it was very cold.
The clouds hung low, heavy with hail
and snow-flakes, and on the fence stood
the raven, crying, "Croak! croak!" for
mere cold; yes, it was enough to make
one feel cold to think of this. The poor
little Duckling certainly had not a good
time. One evening—the sun was just
setting in his beauty—there came a
whole flock of great handsome birds out
of the bushes; they were dazzlingly white,
with long flexible necks; they were swans.
They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread
forth their glorious great wings, and
flew away from that cold region to warmer
lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted
so high, so high! and the ugly little Duckling
felt quite strange as it watched
them. It turned round and round in the
water like a wheel, stretched out its neck
toward them, and uttered such a strange
loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it
could not forget those beautiful, happy
birds; and so soon as it could see them no
longer, it dived down to the very bottom,
and when it came up again, it was quite
beside itself. It knew not the name of
those birds, and knew not whither they
were flying; but it loved them more than
it had ever loved anyone. It was not
at all envious of them. How could it
think of wishing to possess such loveliness
as they had? It would have been glad
if only the ducks would have endured its
company—the poor ugly creature!

And the winter grew cold, very cold!
The Duckling was forced to swim about
in the water, to prevent the surface from
freezing entirely; but every night the
hole in which it swam about became
smaller and smaller. It froze so hard
that the icy covering crackled again; and
the Duckling was obliged to use its legs
continually to prevent the hole from
freezing up. At last it became exhausted,
and lay quite still, and thus froze fast
into the ice.

Early in the morning a peasant came
by, and when he saw what had happened,
he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice-crust
to pieces, and carried the Duckling
home to his wife. Then it came to itself
again. The children wanted to play with
it; but the Duckling thought they would
do it an injury, and in its terror fluttered
up into the milk-pan, so that the milk
spurted down into the room. The
woman clapped her hands, at which the
Duckling flew down into the butter-tub,
and then into the meal-barrel and out
again. How it looked then! The woman
screamed, and struck at it with the
fire-tongs; the children tumbled over one
another in their efforts to catch the
Duckling; and they laughed and screamed
finely. Happily the door stood open,
and the poor creature was able to slip
out between the shrubs into the newly-[209]fallen
snow; and there it lay quite
exhausted.

But it would be too melancholy if I
were to tell all the misery and care which
the Duckling had to endure in the hard
winter. It lay out on the moor among
the reeds when the sun began to shine
again and the larks to sing; it was a
beautiful spring.

Then all at once the Duckling could
flap its wings; they beat the air more
strongly than before, and bore it strongly
away; and before it well knew how all
this had happened, it found itself in a
great garden, where the elder trees smelt
sweet, and bent their long green branches
down to the canal that wound through
the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful,
such a gladness of spring! and from the
thicket came three glorious white swans;
they rustled their wings, and swam lightly
on the water. The Duckling knew the
splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by
a peculiar sadness.

"I will fly away to them, to the royal
birds! and they will kill me, because I,
that am so ugly, dare to approach them.
But it is of no consequence! Better to
be killed by them than to be pursued by
ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed
about by the girl who takes care of the
poultry-yard, and to suffer hunger in
winter!" And it flew out into the
water, and swam toward the beautiful
swans: these looked at it, and came sailing
down upon it with outspread wings.
"Kill me!" said the poor creature, and
bent its head down upon the water,
expecting nothing but death. But what
was this that it saw in the clear water?
It beheld its own image—and, lo! it was
no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly
and hateful to look at, but—a swan.

It matters nothing if one was born in
a duck-yard, if one has only lain in a
swan's egg.

It felt quite glad at all the need and
misfortune it had suffered, now it realized
its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded
it. And the great swans swam
round it, and stroked it with their beaks.

Into the garden came little children,
who threw bread and corn into the water;
the youngest cried, "There is a new one!"
and the other children shouted joyously,
"Yes, a new one has arrived!" And
they clapped their hands and danced
about, and ran to their father and mother;
and bread and cake were thrown into the
water; and they all said, "The new one is
the most beautiful of all! so young and
handsome!" and the old swans bowed
their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid
his head under his wing, for he did not
know what to do; he was so happy, and
yet not at all proud. He thought how
he had been persecuted and despised; and
now he heard them saying that he was
the most beautiful of all the birds. Even
the elder tree bent its branches straight
down into the water before him, and the
sun shone warm and mild. Then his
wings rustled, he lifted his slender neck,
and cried rejoicingly from the depths of
his heart:

"I never dreamed of so much happiness
when I was still the Ugly Duckling!"

One of the really successful modern attempts
at telling new fairy stories was Granny's
Wonderful Chair (1857) by the blind
poet Frances Browne (1816-1887). In
spite of the obstacles due to blindness,
poverty, and ill-health, she succeeded in
educating herself, and after achieving some
fame as a poet left her mountain village[210]
in county Donegal, Ireland, to make a
literary career in Edinburgh and London.
She published many volumes of poems,
novels, and children's books. Only one
of these is now much read or remembered,
but it has taken a firm place in the affections
of children. In Granny's Wonderful Chair
there are seven stories, set in an
interesting framework which tells of the
adventures of the little girl Snowflower and
her chair at the court of King Winwealth.
This chair had magic power to transport
Snowflower wherever she wished to go, like
the magic carpet in the Arabian Nights.
When she laid down her head and said,
"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story,"
a clear voice from under the cushion would
at once begin to speak. Besides the story
that follows, two of the most satisfactory
in the collection are "The Greedy Shepherd"
and "The Story of Merrymind." Perhaps
one of the secrets of their charm is in the
power of visualization which the author
possessed. The pictures are all clear and
definite, yet touched with the glamor of
fairyland.

THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT

FRANCES BROWNE

Once upon a time there stood far away
in the west country a town called Stumpinghame.
It contained seven windmills,
a royal palace, a market place, and a
prison, with every other convenience
befitting the capital of a kingdom. A
capital city was Stumpinghame, and its
inhabitants thought it the only one in
the world. It stood in the midst of a
great plain, which for three leagues round
its walls was covered with corn, flax, and
orchards. Beyond that lay a great
circle of pasture land, seven leagues in
breadth, and it was bounded on all sides
by a forest so thick and old that no man
in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and
the opinion of the learned was that it
reached to the end of the world.

There were strong reasons for this
opinion. First, that forest was known
to be inhabited time out of mind by the
fairies, and no hunter cared to go beyond
its border—so all the west country
believed it to be solidly full of old trees
to the heart. Secondly, the people of
Stumpinghame were no travelers—man,
woman, and child had feet so large and
heavy that it was by no means convenient
to carry them far. Whether it
was the nature of the place or the people,
I cannot tell, but great feet had been the
fashion there time immemorial, and the
higher the family the larger were they.
It was, therefore, the aim of everybody
above the degree of shepherds, and such-like
rustics, to swell out and enlarge
their feet by way of gentility; and so
successful were they in these undertakings
that, on a pinch, respectable people's
slippers would have served for panniers.

Stumpinghame had a king of its own,
and his name was Stiffstep; his family
was very ancient and large-footed. His
subjects called him Lord of the World,
and he made a speech to them every
year concerning the grandeur of his
mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel,
was the greatest beauty in Stumpinghame.
Her majesty's shoe was not
much less than a fishing-boat; their six
children promised to be quite as handsome,
and all went well with them till the
birth of their seventh son.

For a long time nobody about the
palace could understand what was the
matter—the ladies-in-waiting looked so
astonished, and the king so vexed; but
at last it was whispered through the city
that the queen's seventh child had been
born with such miserably small feet that[211]
they resembled nothing ever seen or heard
of in Stumpinghame, except the feet of
the fairies.

The chronicles furnished no example of
such an affliction ever before happening
in the royal family. The common people
thought it portended some great calamity
to the city; the learnèd men began to
write books about it; and all the relations
of the king and queen assembled at the
palace to mourn with them over their
singular misfortune. The whole court
and most of the citizens helped in this
mourning, but when it had lasted seven
days they all found out it was of no use.
So the relations went to their homes, and
the people took to their work. If the
learnèd men's books were written, nobody
ever read them; and to cheer up the
queen's spirits, the young prince was sent
privately out to the pasture lands, to be
nursed among the shepherds.

The chief man there was called
Fleecefold, and his wife's name was
Rough Ruddy. They lived in a snug
cottage with their son Blackthorn and
their daughter Brownberry, and were
thought great people, because they kept
the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's
family were known to be ancient; and
Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the
largest feet in all the pastures. The
shepherds held them in high respect, and
it grew still higher when the news spread
that the king's seventh son had been sent
to their cottage. People came from all
quarters to see the young prince, and
great were the lamentations over his
misfortune in having such small feet.

The king and queen had given him
fourteen names, beginning with Augustus—such
being the fashion in that
royal family; but the honest country
people could not remember so many;
besides, his feet were the most remarkable
thing about the child, so with one
accord they called him Fairyfoot. At
first it was feared this might be high
treason, but when no notice was taken
by the king or his ministers, the shepherds
concluded it was no harm, and the
boy never had another name throughout
the pastures. At court it was not
thought polite to speak of him at all.
They did not keep his birthday, and
he was never sent for at Christmas,
because the queen and her ladies could
not bear the sight. Once a year the
undermost scullion was sent to see how
he did, with a bundle of his next brother's
cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew
old and cross, it was said he had thoughts
of disowning him.

So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage.
Perhaps the country air made
him fair and rosy—for all agreed that
he would have been a handsome boy
but for his small feet, with which nevertheless
he learned to walk, and in time
to run and to jump, thereby amazing
everybody, for such doings were not
known among the children of Stumpinghame.
The news of court, however,
traveled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot
was despised among them. The
old people thought him unlucky; the
children refused to play with him.
Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in
his cottage, but he durst not disobey
the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn
wore most of the clothes brought by the
scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found
out that the sight of such horrid jumping
would make her children vulgar; and,
as soon as he was old enough, she sent
Fairyfoot every day to watch some sickly
sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy
pasture, hard by the forest.[212]

Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and
sorrowful; many a time he wished his
feet would grow larger, or that people
wouldn't notice them so much; and all
the comfort he had was running and
jumping by himself in the wild pasture,
and thinking that none of the shepherds'
children could do the like, for all their
pride of their great feet.

Tired of this sport, he was lying in
the shadow of a mossy rock one warm
summer's noon, with the sheep feeding
around, when a robin, pursued by a
great hawk, flew into the old velvet
cap which lay on the ground beside him.
Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk,
frightened by his shout, flew away.

"Now you may go, poor robin!" he
said, opening the cap: but instead of
the bird, out sprang a little man dressed
in russet-brown, and looking as if he
were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot
could not speak for astonishment, but
the little man said—

"Thank you for your shelter, and be
sure I will do as much for you. Call on
me if you are ever in trouble; my name
is Robin Goodfellow"; and darting off,
he was out of sight in an instant. For
days the boy wondered who that little
man could be, but he told nobody, for
the little man's feet were as small as
his own, and it was clear he would be
no favorite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot
kept the story to himself, and at
last midsummer came. That evening
was a feast among the shepherds. There
were bonfires on the hills, and fun in
the villages. But Fairyfoot sat alone
beside his sheepfold, for the children of
his village had refused to let him dance
with them about the bonfire, and he had
gone there to bewail the size of his feet,
which came between him and so many
good things. Fairyfoot had never felt so
lonely in all his life, and remembering the
little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried—

"Ho! Robin Goodfellow!"

"Here I am," said a shrill voice at his
elbow; and there stood the little man
himself.

"I am very lonely, and no one will
play with me, because my feet are not
large enough," said Fairyfoot.

"Come then and play with us," said
the little man. "We lead the merriest
lives in the world, and care for nobody's
feet; but all companies have their own
manners, and there are two things you
must mind among us: first, do as you
see the rest doing; and secondly, never
speak of anything you may hear or see,
for we and the people of this country
have had no friendship ever since large
feet came in fashion."

"I will do that, and anything more
you like," said Fairyfoot; and the little
man, taking his hand, led him over the
pasture into the forest and along a
mossy path among old trees wreathed
with ivy (he never knew how far), till
they heard the sound of music and came
upon a meadow where the moon shone
as bright as day, and all the flowers of
the year—snowdrops, violets, primroses,
and cowslips—bloomed together in the
thick grass. There were a crowd of
little men and women, some clad in
russet color, but far more in green, dancing
round a little well as clear as crystal.
And under great rose-trees which grew
here and there in the meadow, companies
were sitting round low tables
covered with cups of milk, dishes of
honey, and carved wooden flagons filled
with clear red wine. The little man led
Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed
him one of the flagons, and said[213]—

"Drink to the good company."

Wine was not very common among
the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the
boy had never tasted such drink as that
before; for scarcely had it gone down
when he forgot all his troubles—how
Blackthorn and Brownberry wore his
clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to
keep the sickly sheep, and the children
would not dance with him: in short, he
forgot the whole misfortune of his feet,
and it seemed to his mind that he was a
king's son, and all was well with him.
All the little people about the well cried—"Welcome!
welcome!" and every one
said—"Come and dance with me!" So
Fairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and
drank milk and ate honey till the moon
was low in the sky, and then the little
man took him by the hand, and never
stopped nor stayed till he was at his
own bed of straw in the cottage corner.

Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired
for all his dancing. Nobody in the cottage
had missed him, and he went out
with the sheep as usual; but every night
all that summer, when the shepherds were
safe in bed, the little man came and took
him away to dance in the forest. Now he
did not care to play with the shepherds'
children, nor grieve that his father and
mother had forgotten him, but watched
the sheep all day, singing to himself or
plaiting rushes; and when the sun went
down, Fairyfoot's heart rejoiced at the
thought of meeting that merry company.

The wonder was that he was never
tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to
be who dance all night; but before the
summer was ended Fairyfoot found out
the reason. One night, when the moon
was full, and the last of the ripe corn
rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow
came for him as usual, and away they
went to the flowery green. The fun
there was high, and Robin was in haste.
So he only pointed to the carved cup
from which Fairyfoot every night drank
the clear red wine.

"I am not thirsty, and there is no use
losing time," thought the boy to himself,
and he joined the dance; but never in
all his life did Fairyfoot find such hard
work as to keep pace with the company.
Their feet seemed to move like lightning,
the swallows did not fly so fast or turn
so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for
he never gave in easily, but at length,
his breath and strength being spent,
the boy was glad to steal away and sit
down behind a mossy oak, where his
eyes closed for very weariness. When
he awoke the dance was nearly over, but
two little ladies clad in green talked close
beside him.

"What a beautiful boy!" said one of
them. "He is worthy to be a king's son.
Only see what handsome feet he has!"

"Yes," said the other, with a laugh,
that sounded spiteful; "they are just
like the feet Princess Maybloom had
before she washed them in the Growing
Well. Her father has sent far and wide
throughout the whole country searching
for a doctor to make them small again,
but nothing in this world can do it
except the water of the Fair Fountain,
and none but I and the nightingales
know where it is."

"One would not care to let the like be
known," said the first little lady: "there
would come such crowds of these great
coarse creatures of mankind, nobody
would have peace for leagues round.
But you will surely send word to the
sweet princess!—she was so kind to
our birds and butterflies, and danced so
like one of ourselves!"[214]

"Not I, indeed!" said the spiteful
fairy. "Her old skinflint of a father
cut down the cedar which I loved best
in the whole forest, and made a chest
of it to hold his money in; besides, I
never liked the princess—everybody
praised her so. But come, we shall be
too late for the last dance."

When they were gone, Fairyfoot could
sleep no more with astonishment. He
did not wonder at the fairies admiring
his feet, because their own were much
the same; but it amazed him that
Princess Maybloom's father should be
troubled at hers growing large. Moreover,
he wished to see that same princess
and her country, since there were
really other places in the world than
Stumpinghame.

When Robin Goodfellow came to take
him home as usual he durst not let him
know that he had overheard anything;
but never was the boy so unwilling to
get up as on that morning, and all day
he was so weary that in the afternoon
Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on
a clump of rushes. It was seldom that
any one thought of looking after him
and the sickly sheep; but it so happened
that towards evening the old shepherd,
Fleecefold, thought he would see how
things went on in the pastures. The
shepherd had a bad temper and a thick
staff, and no sooner did he catch sight
of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock
straying away, than shouting all the
ill names he could remember, in a voice
which woke up the boy, he ran after
him as fast as his great feet would allow;
while Fairyfoot, seeing no other shelter
from his fury, fled into the forest, and
never stopped nor stayed till he reached
the banks of a little stream.

Thinking it might lead him to the
fairies' dancing-ground, he followed that
stream for many an hour, but it wound
away into the heart of the forest, flowing
through dells, falling over mossy rocks,
and at last leading Fairyfoot, when he
was tired and the night had fallen, to a
grove of great rose-trees, with the moon
shining on it as bright as day, and
thousands of nightingales singing in the
branches. In the midst of that grove
was a clear spring, bordered with banks
of lilies, and Fairyfoot sat down by it to
rest himself and listen. The singing was
so sweet he could have listened for ever,
but as he sat the nightingales left off their
songs, and began to talk together in the
silence of the night.

"What boy is that," said one on a
branch above him, "who sits so lonely
by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have
come from Stumpinghame with such
small and handsome feet."

"No, I'll warrant you," said another,
"he has come from the west country.
How in the world did he find the way?"

"How simple you are!" said a third
nightingale. "What had he to do but
follow the ground-ivy which grows over
height and hollow, bank and bush, from
the lowest gate of the king's kitchen
garden to the root of this rose-tree? He
looks a wise boy, and I hope he will
keep the secret, or we shall have all the
west country here, dabbling in our
fountain, and leaving us no rest to either
talk or sing."

Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at
this discourse, but by and by, when the
talk ceased and the songs began, he
thought it might be as well for him to
follow the ground-ivy, and see the
Princess Maybloom, not to speak of
getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly
sheep, and the crusty old shepherd. It[215]
was a long journey; but he went on,
eating wild berries by day, sleeping in the
hollows of old trees by night, and never
losing sight of the ground-ivy, which led
him over height and hollow, bank and
bush, out of the forest, and along a noble
high road, with fields and villages on
every side, to a great city, and a low old-fashioned
gate of the king's kitchen-garden,
which was thought too mean for
the scullions, and had not been opened
for seven years.

There was no use knocking—the gate
was overgrown with tall weeds and moss;
so, being an active boy, he climbed over,
and walked through the garden, till a
white fawn came frisking by, and he
heard a soft voice saying sorrowfully—

"Come back, come back, my fawn!
I cannot run and play with you now, my
feet have grown so heavy"; and looking
round he saw the loveliest young princess
in the world, dressed in snow-white, and
wearing a wreath of roses on her golden
hair; but walking slowly, as the great
people did in Stumpinghame, for her feet
were as large as the best of them.

After her came six young ladies, dressed
in white and walking slowly, for they
could not go before the princess; but
Fairyfoot was amazed to see that their
feet were as small as his own. At once
he guessed that this must be the Princess
Maybloom, and made her an humble
bow, saying—

"Royal princess, I have heard of your
trouble because your feet have grown
large; in my country that's all the
fashion. For seven years past I have
been wondering what would make mine
grow, to no purpose; but I know of a
certain fountain that will make yours
smaller and finer than ever they were,
if the king, your father, gives you leave
to come with me, accompanied by two of
your maids that are the least given to
talking, and the most prudent officer in
all his household; for it would grievously
offend the fairies and the nightingales to
make that fountain known."

When the princess heard that, she
danced for joy in spite of her large feet,
and she and her six maids brought
Fairyfoot before the king and queen,
where they sat in their palace hall, with
all the courtiers paying their morning
compliments. The lords were very much
astonished to see a ragged, bare-footed
boy brought in among them, and the
ladies thought Princess Maybloom must
have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an
humble reverence, told his message to
the king and queen, and offered to set
out with the princess that very day. At
first the king would not believe that
there could be any use in his offer, because
so many great physicians had
failed to give any relief. The courtiers
laughed Fairyfoot to scorn, the pages
wanted to turn him out for an impudent
impostor, and the prime minister said
he ought to be put to death for high
treason.

Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the
forest again, or even keeping the sickly
sheep; but the queen, being a prudent
woman, said—

"I pray your majesty to notice what
fine feet this boy has. There may be
some truth in his story. For the sake
of our only daughter, I will choose two
maids who talk the least of all our train,
and my chamberlain, who is the most
discreet officer in our household. Let
them go with the princess; who knows
but our sorrow may be lessened?"

After some persuasion the king consented,
though all his councillors advised[216]
the contrary. So the two silent maids,
the discreet chamberlain, and her fawn,
which would not stay behind, were sent
with Princess Maybloom, and they all
set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard
work guiding them along the track of
the ground-ivy. The maids and the
chamberlain did not like the brambles
and rough roots of the forest—they
thought it hard to eat berries and sleep
in hollow trees; but the princess went on
with good courage, and at last they
reached the grove of rose-trees, and the
spring bordered with lilies.

The chamberlain washed—and though
his hair had been grey, and his face
wrinkled, the young courtiers envied his
beauty for years after. The maids
washed—and from that day they were
esteemed the fairest in all the palace.
Lastly, the princess washed also—it
could make her no fairer, but the moment
her feet touched the water they grew
less, and when she had washed and dried
them three times, they were as small and
finely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There
was great joy among them, but the boy
said sorrowfully—

"Oh! if there had been a well in the
world to make my feet large, my father
and mother would not have cast me off,
nor sent me to live among the shepherds."

"Cheer up your heart," said the
Princess Maybloom; "if you want large
feet, there is a well in this forest that will
do it. Last summer time I came with
my father and his foresters to see a great
cedar cut down, of which he meant to
make a money chest. While they were
busy with the cedar, I saw a bramble
branch covered with berries. Some were
ripe and some were green, but it was the
longest bramble that ever grew; for the
sake of the berries, I went on and on to
its root, which grew hard by a muddy-looking
well, with banks of dark green
moss, in the deepest part of the forest.
The day was warm and dry and my feet
were sore with the rough ground, so I
took off my scarlet shoes and washed my
feet in the well; but as I washed they
grew larger every minute, and nothing
could ever make them less again. I
have seen the bramble this day; it is not
far off, and as you have shown me the
Fair Fountain, I will show you the Growing
Well."

Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom,
and went together till they found
the bramble, and came to where its root
grew, hard by the muddy-looking well,
with banks of dark green moss in the
deepest dell of the forest. Fairyfoot sat
down to wash, but at that minute he
heard a sound of music, and knew it
was the fairies going to their dancing
ground.

"If my feet grow large," said the boy
to himself, "how shall I dance with
them?" So, rising quickly, he took the
Princess Maybloom by the hand. The
fawn followed them; the maids and the
chamberlain followed it, and all followed
the music through the forest. At last
they came to the flowery green. Robin
Goodfellow welcomed the company for
Fairyfoot's sake, and gave every one a
drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced
there from sunset till the grey morning,
and nobody was tired; but before the lark
sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all
safe home, as he used to take Fairyfoot.

There was great joy that day in the
palace because Princess Maybloom's feet
were made small again. The king gave
Fairyfoot all manner of fine clothes and
rich jewels; and when they heard his
wonderful story, he and the queen asked[217]
him to live with them and be their son.
In process of time Fairyfoot and Princess
Maybloom were married, and still live
happily. When they go to visit at
Stumpinghame, they always wash their
feet in the Growing Well, lest the royal
family might think them a disgrace, but
when they come back, they make haste
to the Fair Fountain; and the fairies and
the nightingales are great friends to
them, as well as the maids and the
chamberlain, because they have told
nobody about it, and there is peace and
quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees.

The ill-fated Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) was
born in Ireland, was educated at Oxford,
came into great notoriety as the reputed
leader of the "aesthetic movement," was
prominent in the London literary world
from 1885 to 1895, fell under the obloquy
of most of his countrymen, and died in
distressing circumstances in Paris. In
addition to some remarkable plays, poems,
and prose books, he wrote a number of
unusual stories especially fascinating to
children, which were collected under the
title The Happy Prince, and Other Tales.
These stories were at once recognized as
classic in quality. While they contain
much implied criticism of certain features
of modern civilization, the whole tone is
so idealistic and the workmanship so fine
that they convey no strong note of bitterness
to the child. "The Happy Prince"
suggests that Wilde saw on the one hand
"the white faces of starving children looking
out listlessly at the black streets";
while on the other hand he saw the Pyramids,
marble angels sculptured on the
cathedral tower, and the gold-covered
statue of the Prince of the Palace of the
Care-Free. Wilde also suggests a remedy
for the starvation and wretchedness that
exist, especially among children, in most
cities where great wealth is displayed. The
important thing in presenting this story
to children is to get the full sympathetic
response due to the sacrifice made by the
Happy Prince and the little swallow. So
much of the effect depends upon the wonderful
beauty of the language that teachers will,
as a rule, get better results from reading or
reciting than from any kind of oral paraphrase.
Another story in this same volume
widely and successfully used by teachers
is the one called "The Selfish Giant."

THE HAPPY PRINCE

OSCAR WILDE

High above the city, on a tall column,
stood the statue of the Happy Prince.
He was gilded all over with thin leaves
of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright
sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on
his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed.
"He is as beautiful as a weathercock,"
remarked one of the Town Councillors
who wished to gain a reputation for having
artistic tastes; "only not quite so
useful," he added, fearing lest people
should think him unpractical, which he
really was not.

"Why can't you be like the Happy
Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her
little boy who was crying for the moon.
"The Happy Prince never dreams of
crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the
world who is quite happy," muttered a
disappointed man as he gazed at the
wonderful statue.

"He looks just like an angel," said the
Charity Children as they came out of the
cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks
and their clean white pinafores.

"How do you know?" said the Mathematical
Master; "you have never seen
one."[218]

"Ah! but we have, in our dreams,"
answered the children; and the Mathematical
Master frowned and looked very
severe, for he did not approve of children
dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a
Little Swallow. His friends had gone
away to Egypt six weeks before, but he
had stayed behind, for he was in love with
the most beautiful Reed. He had met
her early in the spring as he was flying
down the river after a big yellow moth,
and had been so attracted by her slender
waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow,
who liked to come to the point at once,
and the Reed made him a low bow. So
he flew round and round her, touching
the water with his wings, and making
silver ripples. This was his courtship,
and it lasted all through the summer.

"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered
the other Swallows; "she has no
money, and far too many relations"; and
indeed the river was quite full of Reeds.
Then when the autumn came they all
flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and
began to tire of his lady-love. "She has
no conversation," he said, "and I am
afraid that she is a coquette, for she is
always flirting with the wind." And
certainly, whenever the wind blew, the
Reed made the most graceful curtseys.
"I admit that she is domestic," he continued,
"but I love traveling, and my
wife, consequently, should love traveling
also."

"Will you come away with me?" he
said finally to her; but the Reed shook her
head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he
cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time
he arrived at the city. "Where shall I
put up?" he said; "I hope the town has
made preparations."

Then he saw the statue on the tall
column.

"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a
fine position, with plenty of fresh air."
So he alighted just between the feet of
the Happy Prince.

"I have a golden bedroom," he said
softly to himself as he looked round, and
he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he
was putting his head under his wing a
large drop of water fell on him. "What
a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not
a single cloud in the sky, the stars are
quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining.
The climate in the north of Europe
is really dreadful. The Reed used to like
the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."

Then another drop fell.

"What is the use of a statue if it cannot
keep the rain off?" he said; "I must
look for a good chimney-pot," and he
determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a
third drop fell, and he looked up, and
saw—Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were
filled with tears, and tears were running
down his golden cheeks. His face was
so beautiful in the moonlight that the
little Swallow was filled with pity.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the
Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."

"When I was alive and had a human
heart," answered the statue, "I did not
know what tears were, for I lived in the
Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not
allowed to enter. In the daytime I[219]
played with my companions in the garden,
and in the evening I led the dance
in the Great Hall. Round the garden
ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared
to ask what lay beyond it, everything
about me was so beautiful. My courtiers
called me the Happy Prince, and
happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness.
So I lived, and so I died. And
now that I am dead they have set me up
here so high that I can see all the ugliness
and all the misery of my city, and though
my heart is made of lead yet I cannot
choose but weep."

"What! is he not solid gold?" said the
Swallow to himself. He was too polite
to make any personal remarks out loud.

"Far away," continued the statue in a
low musical voice, "far away in a little
street there is a poor house. One of the
windows is open, and through it I can
see a woman seated at a table. Her face
is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red
hands, all pricked by the needle, for she
is a seamstress. She is embroidering
passion-flowers on a satin gown for the
loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honor to
wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed
in the corner of the room her little boy
is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking
for oranges. His mother has nothing to
give him but river water, so he is crying.
Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,
will you not take her the ruby out of
my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to
this pedestal and I cannot move."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the
Swallow. "My friends are flying up and
down the Nile, and talking to the large
lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep
in the tomb of the great King. The King
is there himself in his painted coffin. He
is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed
with spices. Round his neck is a chain
of pale green jade, and his hands are like
withered leaves."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me for one night, and be my messenger?
The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so
sad."

"I don't think I like boys," answered
the Swallow. "Last summer, when I
was staying on the river, there were two
rude boys, the miller's sons, who were
always throwing stones at me. They
never hit me, of course; we swallows fly
far too well for that, and besides, I come
of a family famous for its agility; but still,
it was a mark of disrespect."

But the Happy Prince looked so sad
that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is
very cold here," he said; "but I will stay
with you for one night, and be your
messenger."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the
Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great
ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew
away with it in his beak over the roofs of
the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower,
where the white marble angels were sculptured.
He passed by the palace and
heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful
girl came out on the balcony with her
lover. "How wonderful the stars are,"
he said to her, "and how wonderful is
the power of love!"

"I hope my dress will be ready in time
for the State-ball," she answered; "I
have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered
on it; but the seamstresses are
so lazy."

He passed over the river, and saw the
lanterns hanging to the masts of the
ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and
saw the old Jews bargaining with each[220]
other, and weighing out money in copper
scales. At last he came to the poor
house and looked in. The boy was tossing
feverishly on his bed, and the mother
had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In
he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the
table beside the woman's thimble. Then
he flew gently round the bed, fanning the
boy's forehead with his wings. "How
cool I feel," said the boy. "I must be
getting better"; and he sank into a
delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the
Happy Prince, and told him what he had
done. "It is curious," he remarked,
"but I feel quite warm now, although it
is so cold."

"That is because you have done a
good action," said the Prince. And the
little Swallow began to think, and then
he fell asleep. Thinking always made
him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the
river and had a bath. "What a remarkable
phenomenon," said the Professor of
Ornithology as he was passing over the
bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And
he wrote a long letter about it to the
local newspaper. Every one quoted it,
it was full of so many words that they
could not understand.

"To-night I go to Egypt," said the
Swallow, and he was in high spirits at
the prospect. He visited all the public
monuments, and sat a long time on top of
the church steeple. Wherever he went
the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each
other, "What a distinguished stranger!"
so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to
the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions
for Egypt?" he cried; "I am
just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me one night longer?"

"I am waited for in Egypt," answered
the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends
will fly up to the Second Cataract. The
river-horse couches there among the bulrushes,
and on a great granite throne sits
the God Memnon. All night long he
watches the stars, and when the morning
star shines he utters one cry of joy, and
then he is silent. At noon the yellow
lions come down to the water's edge to
drink. They have eyes like green beryls,
and their roar is louder than the roar of
the cataract."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "far away across the city
I see a young man in a garret. He is
leaning over a desk covered with papers,
and in a tumbler by his side there is a
bunch of withered violets. His hair is
brown and crisp, and his lips are red as
a pomegranate, and he has large and
dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a
play for the Director of the Theatre, but
he is too cold to write any more. There
is no fire in the grate, and hunger has
made him faint."

"I will wait with you one night longer,"
said the Swallow, who really had a good
heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the
Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left.
They are made of rare sapphires, which
were brought out of India a thousand
years ago. Pluck out one of them and
take it to him. He will sell it to the
jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and
finish his play."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I
cannot do that"; and he began to weep.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So the Swallow plucked out the[221]
Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's
garret. It was easy enough to get
in, as there was a hole in the roof.
Through this he darted, and came into
the room. The young man had his head
buried in his hands, so he did not hear
the flutter of the bird's wings, and when
he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire
lying on the withered violets.

"I am beginning to be appreciated,"
he cried; "this is from some great admirer.
Now I can finish my play," and he looked
quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down
to the harbor. He sat on the mast of
a large vessel and watched the sailors
hauling big chests out of the hold with
ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as
each chest came up. "I am going to
Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody
minded, and when the moon rose he flew
back to the Happy Prince.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he
cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "will you not stay with
me one night longer?"

"It is winter," answered the Swallow,
"and the chill snow will soon be here.
In Egypt the sun is warm on the green
palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the
mud and look lazily about them. My
companions are building a nest in the
Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and
white doves are watching them, and
cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I
must leave you, but I will never forget
you, and next spring I will bring you back
two beautiful jewels in place of those you
have given away. The ruby shall be
redder than a red rose, and the sapphire
shall be as blue as the great sea."

"In the square below," said the Happy
Prince, "there stands a little match-girl.
She has let her matches fall in the gutter,
and they are all spoiled. Her father will
beat her if she does not bring home some
money, and she is crying. She has no
shoes or stockings, and her little head is
bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it
to her, and her father will not beat her."

"I will stay with you one night longer,"
said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck
out your eye. You would be quite blind
then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,"
said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So he plucked out the Prince's other
eye, and darted down with it. He
swooped past the match-girl, and slipped
the jewel into the palm of her hand.
"What a lovely bit of glass," cried the
little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the
Prince. "You are blind now," he said,
"so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor
Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said
the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's
feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince's
shoulder, and told him stories of what he
had seen in strange lands. He told him
of the red ibises, who stand in long rows
on the banks of the Nile, and catch goldfish
in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is
as old as the world itself, and lives in the
desert, and knows everything; of the
merchants, who walk slowly by the
side of their camels, and carry amber
beads in their hands; of the King of the
Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as
ebony, and worships a large crystal; of
the great green snake that sleeps in a
palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed
it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies
who sail over a big lake on large flat[222]
leaves, and are always at war with the
butterflies.

"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince,
"you tell me of marvelous things, but
more marvelous than anything is the
suffering of men and of women. There
is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly
over my city, little Swallow, and tell me
what you see there."

So the Swallow flew over the great
city, and saw the rich making merry in
their beautiful houses, while the beggars
were sitting at the gates. He flew into
dark lanes, and saw the white faces of
starving children looking out listlessly at
the black streets. Under the archway of
a bridge two little boys were lying in one
another's arms to try to keep themselves
warm. "How hungry we are!"
they said. "You must not lie here,"
shouted the Watchman, and they wandered
out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince
what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold," said
the Prince; "you must take it off, leaf
by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living
always think that gold can make them
happy."

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow
picked off, till the Happy Prince
looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after
leaf of the fine gold he brought to the
poor, and the children's faces grew rosier,
and they laughed and played games in the
street. "We have bread now!" they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the
snow came the frost. The streets looked
as if they were made of silver, they were
so bright and glistening; long icicles like
crystal daggers hung down from the
eaves of the houses, everybody went
about in furs, and the little boys wore
scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and
colder, but he would not leave the Prince;
he loved him too well. He picked up
crumbs outside the baker's door when the
baker was not looking, and tried to keep
himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going
to die. He had just strength to fly up
to the Prince's shoulder once more.
"Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured,
"will you let me kiss your hand?"

"I am glad that you are going to Egypt
at last, little Swallow," said the Prince.
"You have stayed too long here; but you
must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."

"It is not to Egypt that I am going,"
said the Swallow. "I am going to the
House of Death. Death is the brother of
Sleep, is he not?"

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the
lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack
sounded inside the statue, as if something
had suddenly broken. The fact is
that the leaden heart had snapped right
in two. It certainly was a dreadfully
hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor
was walking in the square below in company
with the Town Councillors. As
they passed the column he looked up at
the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the
Happy Prince looks!" he said.

"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town
Councillors, who always agreed with the
Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword,
his eyes are gone, and he is golden no
longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is
little better than a beggar!"

"Little better than a beggar," said the
Town Councillors.

"And here is actually a dead bird at
his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We[223]
must really issue a proclamation that
birds are not to be allowed to die here."
And the Town Clerk made a note of the
suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the
Happy Prince. "As he is no longer
beautiful he is no longer useful," said the
Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace,
and the Mayor held a meeting of
the Corporation to decide what was to be
done with the metal. "We must have
another statue, of course," he said, "and
it shall be a statue of myself."

"Of myself," said each of the Town
Councillors, and they quarrelled. When
I last heard of them they were quarreling
still.

"What a strange thing!" said the overseer
of the workmen at the foundry.
"This broken lead heart will not melt in
the furnace. We must throw it away."
So they threw it on a dustheap where the
dead Swallow was also lying.

"Bring me the two most precious
things in the city," said God to one of
His Angels; and the Angel brought Him
the leaden heart and the dead bird.

"You have rightly chosen," said God,
"for in my garden of Paradise this little
bird shall sing for evermore, and in my
city of gold the Happy Prince shall
praise me."

Two stories of unusual interest and charm
for children are found in the collection of
eleven by Raymond M. Alden (1873—),
Why the Chimes Rang. One is the title
story of the volume; the other is "The
Knights of the Silver Shield." The latter
follows by permission of the publishers,
The Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis.
(Copyright, 1906, 1908.) It is of striking
dramatic interest and emphasizes a much-needed
quality of character, the importance
of a loyal performance of the lowlier duties
of life. The salvation of a nation may
depend upon the humble guardian of the
gate quite as much as upon those who are
engaged in the more spectacular struggle
with giants. Mr. Alden is a scholarly
professor of literature in Leland Stanford
Jr. University, and it may interest the
reader to know that he is the son of the
author of the Pansy Books, a type of religious
or Sunday-school fiction widely read
throughout the country by a generation
or two of young people.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE
SILVER SHIELD

RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN

There was once a splendid castle in a
forest, with great stone walls and a high
gateway, and turrets that rose away
above the tallest trees. The forest was
dark and dangerous, and many cruel
giants lived in it; but in the castle was a
company of knights, who were kept there
by the king of the country, to help travelers
who might be in the forest and to
fight with the giants whenever they could.

Each of these knights wore a beautiful
suit of armor and carried a long spear,
while over his helmet there floated a great
red plume that could be seen a long way
off by any one in distress. But the most
wonderful thing about the knights'
armor was their shields. They were not
like those of other knights, but had been
made by a great magician who had lived
in the castle many years before. They
were made of silver, and sometimes shone
in the sunlight with dazzling brightness;
but at other times the surface of the
shields would be clouded as though by a
mist, and one could not see his face[224]
reflected there as he could when they
shone brightly.

Now, when each young knight received
his spurs and his armor, a new shield was
also given him from among those that the
magician had made; and when the shield
was new its surface was always cloudy
and dull. But as the knight began to do
service against the giants, or went on
expeditions to help poor travelers in the
forest, his shield grew brighter and
brighter, so that he could see his face
clearly reflected in it. But if he proved
to be a lazy or cowardly knight, and let
the giants get the better of him, or did
not care what became of the travelers,
then the shield grew more and more
cloudy, until the knight became ashamed
to carry it.

But this was not all. When any one
of the knights fought a particularly hard
battle, and won the victory, or when he
went on some hard errand for the lord
of the castle, and was successful, not only
did his silver shield grow brighter, but
when one looked into the center of it he
could see something like a golden star
shining in its very heart. This was the
greatest honor that a knight could
achieve, and the other knights always
spoke of such a one as having "won his
star." It was usually not till he was
pretty old and tried as a soldier that he
could win it. At the time when this
story begins, the lord of the castle himself
was the only one of the knights whose
shield bore the golden star.

There came a time when the worst of
the giants in the forest gathered themselves
together to have a battle against
the knights. They made a camp in a
dark hollow not far from the castle, and
gathered all their best warriors together,
and all the knights made ready to fight
them. The windows of the castle were
closed and barred; the air was full of the
noise of armor being made ready for use;
and the knights were so excited that they
could scarcely rest or eat.

Now there was a young knight in the
castle, named Sir Roland, who was
among those most eager for the battle.
He was a splendid warrior, with eyes that
shone like stars whenever there was anything
to do in the way of knightly deeds.
And although he was still quite young,
his shield had begun to shine enough to
show plainly that he had done bravely
in some of his errands through the forest.
This battle, he thought, would be the
great opportunity of his life. And on the
morning of the day when they were to go
forth to it, and all the knights assembled
in the great hall of the castle to receive
the commands of their leaders, Sir Roland
hoped that he would be put in the most
dangerous place of all, so that he could
show what knightly stuff he was made of.

But when the lord of the castle came
to him, as he went about in full armor
giving his commands, he said: "One
brave knight must stay behind and guard
the gateway of the castle, and it is you,
Sir Roland, being one of the youngest,
whom I have chosen for this."

At these words Sir Roland was so disappointed
that he bit his lip and closed
his helmet over his face so that the other
knights might not see it. For a moment
he felt as if he must reply angrily to the
commander and tell him that it was not
right to leave so sturdy a knight behind
when he was eager to fight. But he
struggled against this feeling and went
quietly to look after his duties at the gate.
The gateway was high and narrow, and
was reached from outside by a high, narrow
bridge that crossed the moat, which[225]
surrounded the castle on every side.
When an enemy approached, the knight
on guard rang a great bell just inside the
gate, and the bridge was drawn up against
the castle wall, so that no one could come
across the moat. So the giants had long
ago given up trying to attack the castle
itself.

To-day the battle was to be in the dark
hollow in the forest, and it was not likely
that there would be anything to do at the
castle gate, except to watch it like a common
doorkeeper. It was not strange
that Sir Roland thought some one else
might have done this.

Presently all the other knights marched
out in their flashing armor, their red
plumes waving over their heads, and their
spears in their hands. The lord of the
castle stopped only to tell Sir Roland to
keep guard over the gate until they had
all returned and to let no one enter.
Then they went into the shadows of the
forest and were soon lost to sight.

Sir Roland stood looking after them
long after they had gone, thinking how
happy he would be if he were on the way
to battle like them. But after a little he
put this out of his mind and tried to
think of pleasanter things. It was a long
time before anything happened, or any
word came from the battle.

At last Sir Roland saw one of the
knights come limping down the path to
the castle, and he went out on the bridge
to meet him. Now this knight was not
a brave one, and he had been frightened
away as soon as he was wounded.

"I have been hurt," he said, "so that
I can not fight any more. But I could
watch the gate for you, if you would like
to go back in my place."

At first Sir Roland's heart leaped with
joy at this, but then he remembered what
the commander had told him on going
away, and he said:

"I should like to go, but a knight
belongs where his commander has put
him. My place is here at the gate, and I
can not open it even for you. Your place
is at the battle."

The knight was ashamed when he heard
this, and he presently turned about and
went into the forest again.

So Sir Roland kept guard silently for
another hour. Then there came an old
beggar woman down the path to the
castle and asked Sir Roland if she might
come in and have some food. He told
her that no one could enter the castle that
day, but that he would send a servant
out to her with food, and that she might
sit and rest as long as she would.

"I have been past the hollow in the
forest where the battle is going on," said
the old woman, while she was waiting for
her food.

"And how do you think it is going?"
asked Sir Roland.

"Badly for the knights, I am afraid,"
said the old woman. "The giants are
fighting as they have never fought before.
I should think you had better go and help
your friends."

"I should like to, indeed," said Sir
Roland. "But I am set to guard the gateway
of the castle and can not leave."

"One fresh knight would make a great
difference when they are all weary with
fighting," said the old woman. "I
should think that, while there are no
enemies about, you would be much more
useful there."

"You may well think so," said Sir
Roland, "and so may I; but it is neither
you nor I that is commander here."

"I suppose," said the old woman
then, "that you are one of the kind of[226]
knights who like to keep out of fighting.
You are lucky to have so good an excuse
for staying at home." And she laughed
a thin and taunting laugh.

Then Sir Roland was very angry, and
thought that if it were only a man instead
of a woman, he would show him
whether he liked fighting or no. But as
it was a woman, he shut his lips and set
his teeth hard together, and as the servant
came just then with the food he had sent
for, he gave it to the old woman quickly
and shut the gate that she might not talk
to him any more.

It was not very long before he heard
some one calling outside. Sir Roland
opened the gate and saw standing at the
other end of the drawbridge a little old
man in a long black cloak. "Why are
you knocking here?" he said. "The
castle is closed to-day."

"Are you Sir Roland?" said the little
old man.

"Yes," said Sir Roland.

"Then you ought not to be staying
here when your commander and his
knights are having so hard a struggle
with the giants, and when you have the
chance to make of yourself the greatest
knight in this kingdom. Listen to me!
I have brought you a magic sword."

As he said this, the old man drew from
under his coat a wonderful sword that
flashed in the sunlight as if it were covered
with diamonds. "This is the sword
of all swords," he said, "and it is for you,
if you will leave your idling here by the
castle gate and carry it to the battle.
Nothing can stand before it. When you
lift it the giants will fall back, your master
will be saved, and you will be crowned
the victorious knight—the one who will
soon take his commander's place as lord
of the castle."

Now Sir Roland believed that it was
a magician who was speaking to him,
for it certainly appeared to be a magic
sword. It seemed so wonderful that the
sword should be brought to him, that he
reached out his hand as though he would
take it, and the little old man came forward,
as though he would cross the drawbridge
into the castle. But as he did so,
it came to Sir Roland's mind again that
that bridge and the gateway had been intrusted
to him, and he called out "No!"
to the old man, so that he stopped where
he was standing. But he waved the shining
sword in the air again, and said: "It
is for you! Take it, and win the victory!"

Sir Roland was really afraid that if he
looked any longer at the sword or listened
to any more words of the old man, he
would not be able to hold himself within
the castle. For this reason he struck the
great bell at the gateway, which was the
signal for the servants inside to pull in the
chains of the drawbridge, and instantly
they began to pull, and the drawbridge
came up, so that the old man could not
cross it to enter the castle, nor Sir Roland
to go out.

Then, as he looked across the moat,
Sir Roland saw a wonderful thing. The
little old man threw off his black cloak,
and as he did so he began to grow bigger
and bigger, until in a minute more he was
a giant as tall as any in the forest. At
first Sir Roland could scarcely believe
his eyes. Then he realized that this
must be one of their giant enemies, who
had changed himself to a little old man
through some magic power, that he might
make his way into the castle while all the
knights were away. Sir Roland shuddered
to think what might have happened
if he had taken the sword and left the
gate unguarded. The giant shook his[227]
fist across the moat that lay between
them, and then, knowing that he could
do nothing more, he went angrily back
into the forest.

Sir Roland now resolved not to open
the gate again, and to pay no attention
to any other visitor. But it was not long
before he heard a sound that made him
spring forward in joy. It was the bugle
of the lord of the castle, and there came
sounding after it the bugles of many of
the knights that were with him, pealing
so joyfully that Sir Roland was sure they
were safe and happy. As they came
nearer, he could hear their shouts of victory.
So he gave the signal to let down
the drawbridge again, and went out to
meet them. They were dusty and bloodstained
and weary, but they had won the
battle with the giants; and it had been
such a great victory that there had never
been a happier home-coming.

Sir Roland greeted them all as they
passed in over the bridge, and then,
when he had closed the gate and fastened
it, he followed them into the great hall
of the castle. The lord of the castle took
his place on the highest seat, with the
other knights about him, and Sir Roland
came forward with the key of the gate,
to give his account of what he had done
in the place to which the commander
had appointed him. The lord of the
castle bowed to him as a sign for him to
begin, but just as he opened his mouth
to speak, one of the knights cried out:

"The shield! the shield! Sir Roland's
shield!"

Every one turned and looked at the
shield which Sir Roland carried on his
left arm. He himself could see only the
top of it and did not know what they
could mean. But what they saw was
the golden star of knighthood, shining
brightly from the center of Sir Roland's
shield. There had never been such
amazement in the castle before.

Sir Roland knelt before the lord of the
castle to receive his commands. He
still did not know why every one was
looking at him so excitedly, and wondered
if he had in some way done wrong.

"Speak, Sir Knight," said the commander,
as soon as he could find his
voice after his surprise, "and tell us all
that has happened to-day at the castle.
Have you been attacked? Have any
giants come hither? Did you fight them
alone?"

"No, my Lord," said Sir Roland.
"Only one giant has been here, and he
went away silently when he found he
could not enter."

Then he told all that had happened
through the day.

When he had finished, the knights all
looked at one another, but no one spoke
a word. Then they looked again at Sir
Roland's shield, to make sure that their
eyes had not deceived them, and there
the golden star was still shining.

After a little silence the lord of the
castle spoke.

"Men make mistakes," he said, "but
our silver shields are never mistaken.
Sir Roland has fought and won the hardest
battle of all to-day."

Then the others all rose and saluted
Sir Roland, who was the youngest knight
that ever carried the golden star.

Jean Ingelow (1820-1897) was an English
poet, novelist, and writer of stories for
children, who lived in the fen district of
Lincolnshire. Her most noted poem deals
with a terrible catastrophe that happened
there more than three centuries ago. It[228]
is called "The High Tide on the Coast of
Lincolnshire." Many reading books for
the third or fourth grade contain her dainty
and melodious "Seven Times One," in
which a little girl expresses the joy and
sense of power felt on reaching a seventh
birthday. Of her children's books, the
favorite is Mopsa the Fairy, which some
one has called a "delightful succession of
breezy impossibilities." Her shorter stories
for children are collected under the title
Stories Told to a Child (two series), from
which "The Prince's Dream" is taken.
It is somewhat old fashioned in method
and style, reminding one of the stories of
the days of Addison and Steele. Its
seriousness is in striking contrast with the
more flippant note in much modern writing
for children, and it is sure to suggest
some questions on the dangers and advantages
of great possessions in their effects
on labor, liberty, and human happiness in
general. However, the moral will take
care of itself, and the attention should rest
on the means used by the old man to teach
the young prince the things he is shut out
from learning by experience. The children
will easily see that it is an anticipation of
the moving-picture method. Some other
good stories in the collection mentioned
are "I Have a Right," "The Fairy Who
Judged Her Neighbors," and "Anselmo."

THE PRINCE'S DREAM

JEAN INGELOW

If we may credit the fable, there is a
tower in the midst of a great Asiatic
plain, wherein is confined a prince who
was placed there in his earliest infancy,
with many slaves and attendants, and
all the luxuries that are compatible with
imprisonment.

Whether he was brought there from
some motive of state, whether to conceal
him from enemies, or to deprive him of
rights, has not transpired; but it is certain
that up to the date of this little history he
had never set his foot outside the walls
of that high tower, and that of the vast
world without he knew only the green
plains which surrounded it; the flocks and
the birds of that region were all his
experience of living creatures, and all the
men he saw outside were shepherds.

And yet he was not utterly deprived of
change, for sometimes one of his attendants
would be ordered away, and his place
would be supplied by a new one. This
fresh companion the prince would never
weary of questioning, and letting him
talk of cities, of ships, of forests, of merchandise,
of kings; but though in turns
they all tried to satisfy his curiosity, they
could not succeed in conveying very
distinct notions to his mind; partly because
there was nothing in the tower to
which they could compare the external
world, partly because, having chiefly
lived lives of seclusion and indolence in
Eastern palaces, they knew it only by
hearsay themselves.

At length, one day, a venerable man of
a noble presence was brought to the
tower, with soldiers to guard him and
slaves to attend him. The prince was
glad of his presence, though at first he
seldom opened his lips, and it was manifest
that confinement made him miserable.
With restless feet he would wander
from window to window of the stone
tower, and mount from story to story;
but mount as high as he would there was
still nothing to be seen but the vast
unvarying plain, clothed with scanty
grass, and flooded with the glaring sunshine;
flocks and herds, and shepherds,
moved across it sometimes, but nothing
else, not even a shadow, for there was no
cloud in the sky to cast one.[229]

The old man, however, always treated
the prince with respect, and answered his
questions with a great deal of patience,
till at length he found a pleasure in satisfying
his curiosity, which so much pleased
the young prisoner, that, as a great condescension,
he invited him to come out
on the roof of the tower and drink sherbet
with him in the cool of the evening,
and tell him of the country beyond the
desert, and what seas are like, and mountains,
and towns.

"I have learnt much from my attendants,
and know this world pretty well by
hearsay," said the prince, as they reclined
on the rich carpet which was spread on
the roof.

The old man smiled, but did not
answer; perhaps because he did not care to
undeceive his young companion, perhaps
because so many slaves were present, some
of whom were serving them with fruit,
and others burning rich odors on a little
chafing-dish that stood between them.

"But there are some words to which
I never could attach any particular
meaning," proceeded the prince, as the
slaves began to retire, "and three in particular
that my attendants cannot satisfy
me upon, or are reluctant to do so."

"What words are those, my prince?"
asked the old man. The prince turned on
his elbow to be sure that the last slave had
descended the tower stairs, then replied—

"O man of much knowledge, the words
are these—Labor, and Liberty, and
Gold."

"Prince," said the old man, "I do not
wonder that it has been hard to make
thee understand the first, the nature of it,
and the cause why most men are born to
it; as for the second, it would be treason
for thee and me to do more than whisper
it here, and sigh for it when none are
listening; but the third need hardly
puzzle thee, thy hookah is bright with it;
all thy jewels are set in it; gold is inlaid
in the ivory of thy bath; thy cup and thy
dish are of gold, and golden threads are
wrought into thy raiment."

"That is true," replied the prince,
"and if I had not seen and handled this
gold, perhaps I might not find its merits
so hard to understand; but I possess it in
abundance, and it does not feed me, nor
make music for me, nor fan me when the
sun is hot, nor cause me to sleep when I
am weary; therefore when my slaves have
told me how merchants go out and brave
the perilous wind and sea, and live in the
unstable ships, and run risks from shipwreck
and pirates, and when, having
asked them why they have done this,
they have answered, 'For gold,' I have
found it hard to believe them; and when
they have told me how men have lied,
and robbed, and deceived; how they have
murdered one another, and leagued together
to depose kings, to oppress provinces,
and all for gold; then I have said
to myself, either my slaves have combined
to make me believe that which is
not, or this gold must be very different
from the yellow stuff that this coin is
made of, this coin which is of no use
but to have a hole pierced through it and
hang to my girdle, that it may tinkle
when I walk."

"Notwithstanding," said the old man,
"nothing can be done without gold; for
look you, prince, it is better than bread,
and fruit, and music, for it can buy them
all, since men love it, and have agreed to
exchange it for whatever they may need."

"How so?" asked the prince.

"If a man has many loaves he cannot
eat them all," answered the old man;
"therefore he goes to his neighbor and[230]
says, 'I have bread and thou hast a coin
of gold—let us change'; so he receives
the gold and goes to another man, saying,
'Thou hast two houses and I have none;
lend me one of thy houses to live in, and
I will give thee my gold'; thus again they
change, and he that has the gold says, 'I
have food enough and goods enough, but
I want a wife, I will go to the merchant
and get a marriage gift for her father, and
for it I will give him this gold.'"

"It is well," said the prince; "but in
time of drought, if there is no bread in a
city, can they make it of gold?"

"Not so," answered the old man, "but
they must send their gold to a city where
there is food, and bring that back instead
of it."

"But if there was a famine all over the
world," asked the prince, "what would
they do then?"

"Why then, and only then," said the
old man, "they must starve, and the gold
would be nought, for it can only be
changed for that which is; it cannot
make that which is not."

"And where do they get gold?" asked
the prince; "is it the precious fruit of some
rare tree, or have they whereby they can
draw it down from the sky at sunset?"

"Some of it," said the old man, "they
dig out of the ground."

Then he told the prince of ancient
rivers running through terrible deserts,
whose sands glitter, with golden grains
and are yellow in the fierce heat of the
sun, and of dreary mines where the Indian
slaves work in gangs tied together, never
seeing the light of day; and lastly (for he
was a man of much knowledge, and had
traveled far), he told him of the valley of
the Sacramento in the New World, and
of those mountains where the people of
Europe send their criminals, and where
now their free men pour forth to gather
gold, and dig for it as hard as if for life;
sitting up by it at night lest any should
take it from them, giving up houses and
country, and wife and children, for the
sake of a few feet of mud, whence they
dig clay that glitters as they wash it; and
how they sift it and rock it as patiently
as if it were their own children in the
cradle, and afterwards carry it in their
bosoms, and forego on account of it
safety and rest.

"But, prince," he proceeded, observing
that the young man was absorbed in his
narrative, "if you would pass your word
to me never to betray me, I would procure
for you a sight of the external
world, and in a trance you should see
those places where gold is dug, and traverse
those regions forbidden to your
mortal footsteps."

Upon this, the prince threw himself at
the old man's feet, and promised heartily
to observe the secrecy required, and
entreated that, for however short time,
he might be suffered to see this wonderful
world.

Then, if we may credit the story, the
old man drew nearer to the chafing-dish
which stood between them, and having
fanned the dying embers in it, cast upon
them a certain powder and some herbs,
from whence as they burnt a peculiar
smoke arose. As their vapors spread, he
desired the prince to draw near and inhale
them, and then (says the fable) when he
should sleep he should find himself, in
his dream, at whatever place he might
desire, with this strange advantage, that
he should see things in their truth and
reality as well as in their outward
shows.

So the prince, not without some fear,
prepared to obey; but first he drank his[231]
sherbet, and handed over the golden cup
to the old man by way of recompense;
then he reclined beside the chafing-dish
and inhaled the heavy perfume till he
became overpowered with sleep, and sank
down upon the carpet in a dream.

The prince knew not where he was, but
a green country was floating before him,
and he found himself standing in a marshy
valley, where a few wretched cottages
were scattered here and there with no
means of communication. There was a
river, but it had overflowed its banks and
made the central land impassable, the
fences had been broken down by it, and
the fields of corn laid low; a few wretched
peasants were wandering about there;
they looked half clad and half starved.
"A miserable valley indeed!" exclaimed
the prince; but as he said it a man came
down from the hills with a great bag of
gold in his hand.

"This valley is mine," said he to the
people; "I have bought it for gold.
Now make banks that the river may not
overflow, and I will give you gold; also
make fences and plant fields, and cover
in the roofs of your houses, and buy yourselves
richer clothing." So the people
did so, and as the gold got lower in the
bag the valley grew fairer and greener,
till the prince exclaimed, "O gold, I see
your value now! O wonderful, beneficent
gold!"

But presently the valley melted away
like a mist, and the prince saw an army
besieging a city; he heard a general
haranguing his soldiers to urge them on,
and the soldiers shouting and battering
the walls; but shortly, when the city was
well-nigh taken, he saw some men
secretly throwing gold among the soldiers,
so much of it that they threw down
their arms to pick it up, and said that the
walls were so strong that they could not
throw them down. "O powerful gold!"
thought the prince; "thou art stronger
than the city walls!"

After that it seemed to himself that he
was walking about in a desert country,
and in his dream he thought, "Now I
know what labor is, for I have seen it,
and its benefits; and I know what liberty
is, for I have tasted it; I can wander
where I will, and no man questions me;
but gold is more strange to me than ever,
for I have seen it buy both liberty and
labor." Shortly after this he saw a great
crowd digging upon a barren hill, and
when he drew near he understood that
he had reached the summit of his wishes,
and that he was to see the place where
the gold came from.

He came up and stood a long time
watching the people as they toiled ready
to faint in the sun, so great was the labor
of digging the gold.

He saw who had much and could not
trust any one to help them to carry it,
binding it in bundles over their shoulders,
and bending and groaning under its
weight; he saw others hide it in the
ground, and watch the place clothed in
rags, that none might suspect that they
were rich; but some, on the contrary, who
had dug up an unusual quantity, he saw
dancing and singing, and vaunting their
success, till robbers waylaid them when
they slept, and rifled their bundles and
carried their golden sand away.

"All these men are mad," thought the
prince, "and this pernicious gold has
made them so."

After this, as he wandered here and
there, he saw groups of people smelting
the gold under the shadow of the trees,
and he observed that a dancing, quivering
vapor rose up from it, which dazzled their[232]
eyes, and distorted everything that they
looked at; arraying it also in different
colors from the true one. He observed
that this vapor from the gold caused all
things to rock and reel before the eyes of
those who looked through it, and also,
by some strange affinity, it drew their
hearts towards those that carried much
gold on their persons, so that they called
them good and beautiful; it also caused
them to see darkness and dullness in the
faces of those who carried none. "This,"
thought the prince, "is very strange";
but not being able to explain it, he went
still further, and there he saw more people.
Each of these had adorned himself with a
broad golden girdle, and was sitting in the
shade, while other men waited on them.

"What ails these people?" he inquired
of one who was looking on, for he observed
a peculiar air of weariness and dullness
in their faces. He was answered that
the girdles were very tight and heavy,
and being bound over the regions of the
heart, were supposed to impede its action,
and prevent it from beating high, and also
to chill the wearer, as being of opaque
material, the warm sunshine of the earth
could not get through to warm him.

"Why, then, do they not break them
asunder," exclaimed the prince, "and
fling them away?"

"Break them asunder!" cried the
man; "why what a madman you must be;
they are made of the purest gold!"

"Forgive my ignorance," replied the
prince; "I am a stranger."

So he walked on, for feelings of delicacy
prevented him from gazing any
longer at the men with the golden girdles;
but as he went he pondered on the misery
he had seen, and thought to himself that
this golden sand did more mischief than
all the poisons of the apothecary; for it
dazzled the eyes of some, it strained the
hearts of others, it bowed down the heads
of many to the earth with its weight; it
was a sore labor to gather it, and when
it was gathered, the robber might carry
it away; it would be a good thing, he
thought, if there were none of it.

After this he came to a place where
were sitting some aged widows and some
orphan children of the gold-diggers, who
were helpless and destitute; they were
weeping and bemoaning themselves, but
stopped at the approach of a man, whose
appearance attracted the prince, for he had
a very great bundle of gold on his back,
and yet it did not bow him down at all;
his apparel was rich but he had no girdle
on, and his face was anything but sad.

"Sir," said the prince to him, "you
have a great burden; you are fortunate to
be able to stand under it."

"I could not do so," he replied, "only
that as I go on I keep lightening it"; and
as he passed each of the widows, he threw
gold to her, and stooping down, hid pieces
of it in the bosoms of the children.

"You have no girdle," said the prince.

"I once had one," answered the gold
gatherer; "but it was so tight over my
breast that my very heart grew cold
under it, and almost ceased to beat.
Having a great quantity of gold on my
back, I felt almost at the last gasp; so I
threw off my girdle and being on the bank
of a river, which I knew not how to cross,
I was about to fling it in, I was so vexed!
'But no,' thought I, 'there are many
people waiting here to cross besides myself.
I will make my girdle into a bridge,
and we will cross over on it.'"

"Turn your girdle into a bridge!"
exclaimed the prince doubtfully, for he
did not quite understand.

"And then, sir, after that," he continued,
"I turned one half of my burden
into bread, and gave it to these poor
people. Since then I have not been
oppressed by its weight, however heavy
it may have been; for few men have a
heavier one. In fact, I gather more from
day to day."

As the man kept speaking, he scattered
his gold right and left with a cheerful
countenance, and the prince was about
to reply, when suddenly a great trembling
under his feet made him fall to the ground.
The refining fires of the gold gatherers
sprang up into flames, and then went out;
night fell over everything on the earth,
and nothing was visible in the sky but
the stars of the southern cross, which
were glittering above him.

"It is past midnight," thought the
prince, "for the stars of the cross begin
to bend."

He raised himself upon his elbow, and
tried to pierce the darkness, but could
not. At length a slender blue flame
darted out, as from ashes in a chafing-dish,
and by the light of it he saw the
strange pattern of his carpet and the
cushions lying about. He did not recognise
them at first, but presently he knew
that he was lying in his usual place, at
the top of his tower.

"Wake up, prince," said the old man.

The prince sat up and sighed, and the
old man inquired what he had seen.

"O man of much learning!" answered
the prince, "I have seen that this is a
wonderful world; I have seen the value
of labor, and I know the uses of it; I have
tasted the sweetness of liberty, and am
grateful, though it was but in a dream;
but as for that other word that was so
great a mystery to me, I only know this,
that it must remain a mystery forever,
since I am fain to believe that all men are
bent on getting it; though, once gotten,
it causeth them endless disquietude, only
second to their discomfort that are without
it. I am fain to believe that they can
procure with it whatever they most
desire, and yet that it cankers their
hearts and dazzles their eyes; that it is
their nature and their duty to gather it;
and yet that, when once gathered, the
best thing they can do is to scatter it!"

Alas! the prince visited this wonderful
world no more; for the next morning,
when he awoke, the old man was gone.
He had taken with him the golden cup
which the prince had given him. And
the sentinel was also gone, none knew
whither. Perhaps the old man had
turned his golden cup into a golden key.

Few modern writers have given their readers
more genuine delight than Frank R.
Stockton (1834-1902). The most absurd
and illogical situations and characters are
presented with an air of such quiet sincerity
that one refuses to question the reality of
it all. Rudder Grange established his reputation
in 1879, and was followed by a long
list of stories of delightfully impossible
events. For several years Stockton was
one of the editors of St. Nicholas, and some
of his stories for children, of first quality
in both form and content, deserve to be
better known than they are. Five of the
best of them for school use have been
brought together in a little volume called
Fanciful Tales. One of these, "Old Pipes
and the Dryad," is given here by permission
of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons,
New York. (Copyright, 1894.) This
story is based upon the old mythical belief
that the trees are inhabited by guardian
deities known as dryads, or hamadryads.
To injure a tree meant to injure its guardian
spirit and was almost certain to insure[234]
disaster for the guilty person. On the other
hand, to protect a tree would bring some
token of appreciation from the dryad. A
good introduction to the story would be
the telling of one or two of these tree myths
as found in Gayley's Classic Myths or
Bulfinch's Age of Fable. A fine literary
version of one of them is in Lowell's
"Rhoecus." But the beautiful and kindly
helpfulness of Old Pipes will carry its own
message whether one knows any mythology
or not.

OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD

FRANK R. STOCKTON

A Mountain brook ran through a little
village. Over the brook there was a
narrow bridge, and from the bridge a
foot-path led out from the village and
up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old
Pipes and his mother.

For many, many years Old Pipes had
been employed by the villagers to pipe
the cattle down from the hills. Every
afternoon, an hour before sunset, he
would sit on a rock in front of his cottage
and play on his pipes. Then all the
flocks and herds that were grazing on the
mountains would hear him, wherever
they might happen to be, and would
come down to the village—the cows by
the easiest paths, the sheep by those
not quite so easy, and the goats by the
steep and rocky ways that were hardest
of all.

But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes
had not piped the cattle home. It is
true that every afternoon he sat upon
the rock and played upon his pipes; but
the cattle did not hear him. He had
grown old, and his breath was feeble.
The echoes of his cheerful notes, which
used to come from the rocky hill on the
other side of the valley, were heard no
more; and twenty yards from Old Pipes
one could scarcely tell what tune he was
playing. He had become somewhat deaf,
and did not know that the sound of his
pipes was so thin and weak, and that the
cattle did not hear him. The cows, the
sheep, and the goats came down every
afternoon as before; but this was because
two boys and a girl were sent up after
them. The villagers did not wish the
good old man to know that his piping
was no longer of any use; so they paid
him his little salary every month, and
said nothing about the two boys and the
girl.

Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a
great deal older than he was, and was
as deaf as a gate—post, latch, hinges,
and all—and she never knew that the
sound of her son's pipe did not spread
over all the mountain-side and echo
back strong and clear from the opposite
hills. She was very fond of Old Pipes,
and proud of his piping; and as he was
so much younger than she was, she
never thought of him as being very old.
She cooked for him, and made his bed,
and mended his clothes; and they lived
very comfortably on his little salary.

One afternoon, at the end of the month,
when Old Pipes had finished his piping,
he took his stout staff and went down
the hill to the village to receive the
money for his month's work. The path
seemed a great deal steeper and more
difficult than it used to be; and Old
Pipes thought that it must have been
washed by the rains and greatly damaged.
He remembered it as a path that
was quite easy to traverse either up or
down. But Old Pipes had been a very
active man, and as his mother was so
much older than he was, he never thought
of himself as aged and infirm.[235]

When the Chief Villager had paid
him, and he had talked a little with
some of his friends, Old Pipes started to
go home. But when he had crossed the
bridge over the brook, and gone a short
distance up the hill-side, he became very
tired, and sat down upon a stone. He
had not been sitting there half a minute,
when along came two boys and a girl.

"Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm
very tired to-night, and I don't believe I
can climb up this steep path to my home.
I think I shall have to ask you to help
me."

"We will do that," said the boys and
the girl, quite cheerfully; and one boy
took him by the right hand and the other
by the left, while the girl pushed him in
the back. In this way he went up the
hill quite easily, and soon reached his
cottage door. Old Pipes gave each of
the three children a copper coin, and then
they sat down for a few minutes' rest
before starting back to the village.

"I'm sorry that I tired you so much,"
said Old Pipes.

"Oh, that would not have tired us,"
said one of the boys, "if we had not
been so far to-day after the cows, the
sheep, and the goats. They rambled
high up on the mountain, and we never
before had such a time in finding them."

"Had to go after the cows, the sheep,
and the goats!" exclaimed Old Pipes.
"What do you mean by that?"

The girl, who stood behind the old
man, shook her head, put her hand on
her mouth, and made all sorts of signs
to the boy to stop talking on this subject;
but he did not notice her, and
promptly answered Old Pipes.

"Why, you see, good sir," said he,
"that as the cattle can't hear your
pipes now, somebody has to go after
them every evening to drive them down
from the mountain, and the Chief
Villager has hired us three to do it.
Generally it is not very hard work, but
to-night the cattle had wandered far."

"How long have you been doing
this?" asked the old man.

The girl shook her head and clapped
her hand on her mouth as before, but
the boy went on.

"I think it is about a year now," he
said, "since the people first felt sure
that the cattle could not hear your
pipes; and from that time we've been
driving them down. But we are rested
now, and will go home. Good-night,
sir."

The three children then went down
the hill, the girl scolding the boy all the
way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few
moments, and then he went into his
cottage.

"Mother," he shouted, "did you hear
what those children said?"

"Children!" exclaimed the old woman;
"I did not hear them. I did not know
there were any children here."

Then Old Pipes told his mother—shouting
very loudly to make her hear—how
the two boys and the girl had helped
him up the hill, and what he had heard
about his piping and the cattle.

"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't
believe there's anything the matter with
the cattle. It must be with me and
my pipes that there is something the
matter. But one thing is certain: if I
do not earn the wages the Chief Villager
pays me, I shall not take them. I shall
go straight down to the village and give
back the money I received to-day."[236]

"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm
sure you've piped as well as you could,
and no more can be expected. And
what are we to do without the money?"

"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but
I'm going down to the village to pay
it back."

The sun had now set; but the moon
was shining very brightly on the hill-side,
and Old Pipes could see his way
very well. He did not take the same
path by which he had gone before, but
followed another, which led among the
trees upon the hill-side, and, though
longer, was not so steep.

When he had gone about half-way, the
old man sat down to rest, leaning his
back against a great oak tree. As he
did so, he heard a sound like knocking
inside the tree, and then a voice said:

"Let me out! let me out!"

Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was
tired, and sprang to his feet. "This
must be a Dryad tree!" he exclaimed.
"If it is, I'll let her out."

Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge,
seen a Dryad tree, but he knew there
were such trees on the hill-sides and the
mountains, and that Dryads lived in
them. He knew, too, that in the summer
time, on those days when the moon rose
before the sun went down, a Dryad
could come out of her tree if any one
could find the key which locked her in,
and turn it. Old Pipes closely examined
the trunk of the tree, which stood in
the full moonlight. "If I see that key,"
he said, "I shall surely turn it." Before
long he found a piece of bark standing
out from the tree, which looked to him
very much like the handle of a key. He
took hold of it, and found he could turn
it quite around. As he did so, a large
part of the side of the tree was pushed
open, and a beautiful Dryad stepped
quickly out.

For a moment she stood motionless,
gazing on the scene before her—the
tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and
the mountain-side, all lying in the soft
clear light of the moon. "Oh, lovely!
lovely!" she exclaimed. "How long it
is since I have seen anything like this!"
And then, turning to Old Pipes, she
said: "How good of you to let me out!
I am so happy, and so thankful, that I
must kiss you, you dear old man!"
And she threw her arms around the
neck of Old Pipes, and kissed him on
both cheeks.

"You don't know," she then went on
to say, "how doleful it is to be shut up
so long in a tree. I don't mind it in
the winter, for then I am glad to be
sheltered, but in summer it is a rueful
thing not to be able to see all the beauties
of the world. And it's ever so long since
I've been let out. People so seldom
come this way; and when they do come
at the right time, they either don't
hear me or they are frightened and run
away. But you, you dear old man, you
were not frightened, and you looked and
looked for the key, and you let me out;
and now I shall not have to go back
till winter has come, and the air grows
cold. Oh, it is glorious! What can I
do for you, to show you how grateful
I am?"

"I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that
I let you out, since I see that it makes you
so happy; but I must admit that I tried
to find the key because I had a great
desire to see a Dryad. But, if you wish
to do something for me, you can, if you
happen to be going down toward the
village."

"To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad.[237]
"I will go anywhere for you, my kind
old benefactor."

"Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish
you would take this little bag of money
to the Chief Villager and tell him that
Old Pipes cannot receive pay for the services
which he does not perform. It is
now more than a year that I have not
been able to make the cattle hear me,
when I piped to call them home. I did
not know this until to-night; but now
that I know it, I cannot keep the money,
and so I send it back." And, handing the
little bag to the Dryad, he bade her good-night,
and turned toward his cottage.

"Good-night," said the Dryad. "And
I thank you over, and over, and over
again, you good old man!"

Old Pipes walked toward his home,
very glad to be saved the fatigue of going
all the way down to the village and back
again. "To be sure," he said to himself,
"this path does not seem at all steep, and
I can walk along it very easily; but it
would have tired me dreadfully to come
up all the way from the village, especially
as I could not have expected those children
to help me again." When he
reached home his mother was surprised
to see him returning so soon.

"What!" she exclaimed; "have you
already come back? What did the Chief
Villager say? Did he take the money?"

Old Pipes was just about to tell her
that he had sent the money to the village
by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected
that his mother would be sure to disapprove
such a proceeding, and so he merely
said he had sent it by a person whom he
had met.

"And how do you know that the person
will ever take it to the Chief Villager?"
cried his mother. "You will lose it, and
the villagers will never get it. Oh,
Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old
enough to have ordinary common-sense?"

Old Pipes considered that, as he was
already seventy years of age, he could
scarcely expect to grow any wiser; but he
made no remark on this subject, and,
saying that he doubted not that the
money would go safely to its destination,
he sat down to his supper. His mother
scolded him roundly, but he did not
mind it; and after supper he went out
and sat on a rustic chair in front of the
cottage to look at the moonlit village, and
to wonder whether or not the Chief
Villager really received the money. While
he was doing these two things, he went
fast asleep.

When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she
did not go down to the village with the
little bag of money. She held it in her
hand, and thought about what she had
heard. "This is a good and honest old
man," she said; "and it is a shame that
he should lose this money. He looked
as if he needed it, and I don't believe the
people in the village will take it from one
who has served them so long. Often,
when in my tree, have I heard the sweet
notes of his pipes. I am going to take
the money back to him." She did not
start immediately, because there were
so many beautiful things to look at; but
after awhile she went up to the cottage,
and, finding Old Pipes asleep in his chair,
she slipped the little bag into his coat-pocket,
and silently sped away.

The next day Old Pipes told his mother
that he would go up the mountain and
cut some wood. He had a right to get
wood from the mountain, but for a long
time he had been content to pick up the
dead branches which lay about his cottage.
To-day, however, he felt so strong
and vigorous that he thought he would[238]
go and cut some fuel that would be better
than this. He worked all the morning,
and when he came back he did not feel
at all tired, and he had a very good appetite
for his dinner.

Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about
Dryads; but there was one thing which,
although he had heard, he had forgotten.
This was, that a kiss from a Dryad made
a person ten years younger.

The people of the village knew this,
and they were very careful not to let any
child of ten years or younger go into the
woods where the Dryads were supposed
to be; for, if they should chance to be
kissed by one of these tree-nymphs, they
would be set back so far that they would
cease to exist.

A story was told in the village that a
very bad boy of eleven once ran away
into the woods, and had an adventure of
this kind; and when his mother found
him he was a little baby of one year old.
Taking advantage of her opportunity,
she brought him up more carefully than
she had done before, and he grew to be a
very good boy indeed.

Now Old Pipes had been kissed twice
by the Dryad, once on each cheek, and
he therefore felt as vigorous and active
as when he was a hale man of fifty.
His mother noticed how much work he
was doing, and told him that he need not
try in that way to make up for the loss of
his piping wages; for he would only tire
himself out, and get sick. But her son
answered that he had not felt so well for
years, and that he was quite able to work.

In the course of the afternoon, Old
Pipes, for the first time that day, put his
hand in his coat-pocket, and there, to
his amazement, he found the little bag
of money. "Well, well!" he exclaimed,
"I am stupid, indeed! I really thought
that I had seen a Dryad; but when I sat
down by that big oak tree I must have
gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and
then I came home, thinking I had given
the money to a Dryad, when it was in
my pocket all the time. But the Chief
Villager shall have the money. I shall
not take it to him to-day, but to-morrow
I wish to go to the village to see some of
my old friends; and then I shall give up
the money."

Toward the close of the afternoon,
Old Pipes, as had been his custom for
so many years, took his pipes from the
shelf on which they lay, and went out
to the rock in front of the cottage.

"What are you going to do?" cried
his mother. "If you will not consent
to be paid, why do you pipe?"

"I am going to pipe for my own
pleasure," said her son. "I am used
to it, and I do not wish to give it up.
It does not matter now whether the
cattle hear me or not, and I am sure
that my piping will injure no one."

When the good man began to play
upon his favorite instrument he was
astonished at the sound that came from
it. The beautiful notes of the pipes
sounded clear and strong down into the
valley, and spread over the hills, and
up the sides of the mountain beyond,
while, after a little interval, an echo
came back from the rocky hill on the
other side of the valley.

"Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened
to my pipes? They must have
been stopped up of late, but now they
are as clear and good as ever."

Again the merry notes went sounding
far and wide. The cattle on the mountain
heard them, and those that were
old enough remembered how these notes
had called them from their pastures[239]
every evening, and so they started down
the mountain-side, the others following.

The merry notes were heard in the
village below, and the people were much
astonished thereby. "Why, who can be
blowing the pipes of Old Pipes?" they
said. But, as they were all very busy,
no one went up to see. One thing, however,
was plain enough: the cattle were
coming down the mountain. And so the
two boys and the girl did not have to
go after them, and had an hour for play,
for which they were very glad.

The next morning Old Pipes started
down to the village with his money, and
on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh,
ho!" he cried, "is that you? Why, I
thought my letting you out of the tree
was nothing but a dream."

"A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if
you only knew how happy you have
made me, you would not think it merely
a dream. And has it not benefited you?
Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I
heard you playing beautifully on your
pipes."

"Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not
understand it before, but I see it all
now. I have really grown younger. I
thank you, I thank you, good Dryad,
from the bottom of my heart. It was
the finding of the money in my pocket
that made me think it was a dream."

"Oh, I put it in when you were
asleep," she said, laughing, "because I
thought you ought to keep it. Good-by,
kind, honest man. May you live long,
and be as happy as I am now."

Old Pipes was greatly delighted when
he understood that he was really a
younger man; but that made no difference
about the money, and he kept on
his way to the village. As soon as he
reached it, he was eagerly questioned as
to who had been playing his pipes the
evening before, and when the people
heard that it was himself they were very
much surprised. Thereupon Old Pipes
told what had happened to him, and
then there was greater wonder, with
hearty congratulations and hand-shakes;
for Old Pipes was liked by everyone.
The Chief Villager refused to take his
money; and although Old Pipes said
that he had not earned it, everyone
present insisted that, as he would now
play on his pipes as before, he should
lose nothing because, for a time, he was
unable to perform his duty.

So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his
money, and after an hour or two spent
in conversation with his friends he
returned to his cottage.

There was one person, however, who
was not pleased with what had happened
to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf
who lived on the hills across the valley.
It was his work to echo back the notes
of the pipes whenever they could be
heard.

A great many other Echo-dwarfs lived
on these hills. They all worked, but in
different ways. Some echoed back the
songs of maidens, some the shouts of
children, and others the music that was
often heard in the village. But there
was only one who could send back the
strong notes of the pipes of Old Pipes,
and this had been his sole duty for many
years. But when the old man grew
feeble, and the notes of his pipes could
not be heard on the opposite hills, this
Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and he
spent his time in delightful idleness;
and he slept so much and grew so fat
that it made his companions laugh to
see him walk.[240]

On the afternoon on which, after so
long an interval, the sound of the pipes
was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf
was fast asleep behind a rock. As soon
as the first notes reached them, some of
his companions ran to wake him up.
Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the
merry tune of Old Pipes.

Naturally, he was very angry at being
thus obliged to give up his life of comfort,
and he hoped very much that this
pipe-playing would not occur again.
The next afternoon he was awake and
listening, and, sure enough, at the usual
hour, along came the notes of the pipes
as clear and strong as they ever had
been; and he was obliged to work as
long as Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf
was very angry. He had supposed,
of course, that the pipe-playing
had ceased forever, and he felt that he
had a right to be indignant at being
thus deceived. He was so much disturbed
that he made up his mind to
go and try to find out how long this was
to last. He had plenty of time, as the
pipes were played but once a day, and
he set off early in the morning for the
hill on which Old Pipes lived. It was
hard work for the fat little fellow, and
when he had crossed the valley and had
gone some distance into the woods on
the hill-side, he stopped to rest, and in
a few minutes the Dryad came tripping
along.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf;
"what are you doing here? and how did
you get out of your tree?"

"Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am
being happy; that's what I am doing.
And I was let out of my tree by the good
old man who plays the pipes to call the
cattle down from the mountain. And
it makes me happier to think that I
have been of service to him. I gave him
two kisses of gratitude, and now he is
young enough to play his pipes as well
as ever."

The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his
face pale with passion. "Am I to believe,"
he said, "that you are the cause of this
great evil that has come upon me? and
that you are the wicked creature who has
again started this old man upon his career
of pipe-playing? What have I ever done
to you that you should have condemned
me for years and years to echo back the
notes of those wretched pipes?"

At this the Dryad laughed loudly.

"What a funny little fellow you are!"
she said. "Anyone would think you
had been condemned to toil from morning
till night; while what you really
have to do is merely to imitate for half
an hour every day the merry notes of
Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you,
Echo-dwarf! You are lazy and selfish;
and that is what is the matter with
you. Instead of grumbling at being
obliged to do a little wholesome work,
which is less, I am sure, than that of
any other echo-dwarf upon the rocky
hill-side, you should rejoice at the good
fortune of the old man who has regained
so much of his strength and vigor. Go
home and learn to be just and generous;
and then, perhaps, you may be happy.
Good-by."

"Insolent creature!" shouted the
dwarf, as he shook his fat little fist
at her. "I'll make you suffer for this.
You shall find out what it is to heap
injury and insult upon one like me,
and to snatch from him the repose
that he has earned by long years of
toil." And, shaking his head savagely,
he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.

Every afternoon the merry notes of[241]
the pipes of Old Pipes sounded down
into the valley and over the hills and
up the mountain-side; and every afternoon
when he had echoed them back,
the little dwarf grew more and more
angry with the Dryad. Each day, from
early morning till it was time for him
to go back to his duties upon the rocky
hill-side, he searched the woods for her.
He intended, if he met her, to pretend
to be very sorry for what he had said,
and he thought he might be able to play
a trick upon her which would avenge
him well.

One day, while thus wandering among
the trees, he met Old Pipes. The Echo-dwarf
did not generally care to see or
speak to ordinary people; but now he was
so anxious to find the object of his search,
that he stopped and asked Old Pipes if
he had seen the Dryad. The piper had
not noticed the little fellow, and he
looked down on him with some surprise.

"No," he said; "I have not seen her,
and I have been looking everywhere for
her."

"You!" cried the dwarf, "what do
you wish with her?"

Old Pipes then sat down on a stone,
so that he should be nearer the ear of
his small companion, and he told what
the Dryad had done for him.

When the Echo-dwarf heard that this
was the man whose pipes he was obliged
to echo back every day, he would have
slain him on the spot, had he been able;
but, as he was not able, he merely ground
his teeth and listened to the rest of the
story.

"I am looking for the Dryad now,"
Old Pipes continued, "on account of my
aged mother. When I was old myself,
I did not notice how very old my mother
was; but now it shocks me to see how
feeble her years have caused her to become;
and I am looking for the Dryad
to ask her to make my mother younger,
as she made me."

The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened.
Here was a man who might help him in
his plans.

"Your idea is a good one," he said to
Old Pipes, "and it does you honor.
But you should know that a Dryad can
make no person younger but one who lets
her out of her tree. However, you can
manage the affair very easily. All you
need do is to find the Dryad, tell her
what you want, and request her to step
into her tree and be shut up for a short
time. Then you will go and bring your
mother to the tree; she will open it, and
everything will be as you wish. Is not
this a good plan?"

"Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I
will go instantly and search more diligently
for the Dryad."

"Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf.
"You can easily carry me on
your strong shoulders; and I shall be
glad to help you in any way that I can."

"Now then," said the little fellow to
himself, as Old Pipes carried him rapidly
along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get
into a tree,—and she is quite foolish
enough to do it,—and then goes away to
bring his mother, I shall take a stone or
a club and I will break off the key of that
tree, so that nobody can ever turn it
again. Then Mistress Dryad will see
what she has brought upon herself by her
behavior to me."

Before long they came to the great oak
tree in which the Dryad had lived, and
at a distance they saw that beautiful
creature herself coming toward them.

"How excellently well everything happens!"
said the dwarf. "Put me down,[242]
and I will go. Your business with the
Dryad is more important than mine; and
you need not say anything about my having
suggested your plan to you. I am
willing that you should have all the credit
of it yourself."

Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the
ground, but the little rogue did not go
away. He hid himself between some
low, mossy rocks, and he was so much
like them in color that you would not
have noticed him if you had been looking
straight at him.

When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes
lost no time in telling her about his
mother, and what he wished her to do.
At first, the Dryad answered nothing,
but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.

"Do you really wish me to go into my
tree again?" she said. "I should dreadfully
dislike to do it, for I don't know
what might happen. It is not at all
necessary, for I could make your mother
younger at any time if she would give me
the opportunity. I had already thought
of making you still happier in this way,
and several times I have waited about
your cottage, hoping to meet your aged
mother, but she never comes outside, and
you know a Dryad cannot enter a house.
I cannot imagine what put this idea into
your head. Did you think of it yourself?"

"No, I cannot say that I did," answered
Old Pipes. "A little dwarf whom
I met in the woods proposed it to me."

"Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see
through it all. It is the scheme of that
vile Echo-dwarf—your enemy and mine.
Where is he? I should like to see him."

"I think he has gone away," said Old
Pipes.

"No, he has not," said the Dryad,
whose quick eyes perceived the Echo-dwarf
among the rocks, "there he is.
Seize him and drag him out, I beg of you."

Old Pipes saw the dwarf as soon as he
was pointed out to him; and running to
the rocks, he caught the little fellow by
the arm and pulled him out.

"Now, then," cried the Dryad, who
had opened the door of the great oak,
"just stick him in there, and we will
shut him up. Then I shall be safe
from his mischief for the rest of the time
I am free."

Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into
the tree; the Dryad pushed the door
shut; there was a clicking sound of
bark and wood, and no one would have
noticed that the big oak had ever had
an opening in it.

"There," said the Dryad; "now we
need not be afraid of him. And I
assure you, my good piper, that I shall
be very glad to make your mother
younger as soon as I can. Will you not
ask her to come out and meet me?"

"Of course I will," cried Old Pipes;
"and I will do it without delay."

And then, the Dryad by his side, he
hurried to his cottage. But when he
mentioned the matter to his mother,
the old woman became very angry
indeed. She did not believe in Dryads;
and, if they really did exist, she knew
they must be witches and sorceresses,
and she would have nothing to do with
them. If her son had ever allowed
himself to be kissed by one of them, he
ought to be ashamed of himself. As to
its doing him the least bit of good, she
did not believe a word of it. He felt
better than he used to feel, but that was
very common. She had sometimes felt
that way herself, and she forbade him
ever to mention a Dryad to her again.

That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling[243]
very sad that his plan in regard to his
mother had failed, sat down upon the
rock and played upon his pipes. The
pleasant sounds went down the valley
and up the hills and mountain, but, to
the great surprise of some persons who
happened to notice the fact, the notes
were not echoed back from the rocky
hill-side, but from the woods on the
side of the valley on which Old Pipes
lived. The next day many of the villagers
stopped in their work to listen
to the echo of the pipes coming from
the woods. The sound was not as clear
and strong as it used to be when it was
sent back from the rocky hill-side, but
it certainly came from among the trees.
Such a thing as an echo changing its
place in this way had never been heard
of before, and nobody was able to
explain how it could have happened.
Old Pipes, however, knew very well
that the sound came from the Echo-dwarf
shut up in the great oak tree.
The sides of the tree were thin, and the
sound of the pipes could be heard through
them, and the dwarf was obliged by the
laws of his being to echo back those
notes whenever they came to him. But
Old Pipes thought he might get the
Dryad in trouble if he let anyone know
that the Echo-dwarf was shut up in the
tree, and so he wisely said nothing
about it.

One day the two boys and the girl
who had helped Old Pipes up the hill were
playing in the woods. Stopping near
the great oak tree, they heard a sound
of knocking within it, and then a voice
plainly said:

"Let me out! let me out!"

For a moment the children stood still
in astonishment, and then one of the
boys exclaimed:

"Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old
Pipes found! Let's let her out!"

"What are you thinking of?" cried
the girl. "I am the oldest of all, and
I am only thirteen. Do you wish to
be turned into crawling babies? Run!
run! run!"

And the two boys and the girl dashed
down into the valley as fast as their
legs could carry them. There was no
desire in their youthful hearts to be
made younger than they were, and for
fear that their parents might think it
well that they should commence their
careers anew, they never said a word
about finding the Dryad tree.

As the summer days went on, Old
Pipes's mother grew feebler and feebler.
One day when her son was away, for
he now frequently went into the woods
to hunt or fish, or down into the valley
to work, she arose from her knitting to
prepare the simple dinner. But she
felt so weak and tired that she was not
able to do the work to which she had
been so long accustomed. "Alas! alas!"
she said, "the time has come when I
am too old to work. My son will have
to hire some one to come here and cook
his meals, make his bed, and mend his
clothes. Alas! alas! I had hoped that
as long as I lived I should be able to do
these things. But it is not so. I have
grown utterly worthless, and some one
else must prepare the dinner for my son.
I wonder where he is." And tottering
to the door, she went outside to look for
him. She did not feel able to stand, and
reaching the rustic chair, she sank into
it, quite exhausted, and soon fell asleep.

The Dryad, who had often come to
the cottage to see if she could find an
opportunity of carrying out Old Pipes's
affectionate design, now happened by;[244]
and seeing that the much-desired occasion
had come, she stepped up quietly
behind the old woman and gently kissed
her on each cheek, and then as quietly
disappeared.

In a few minutes the mother of Old
Pipes awoke, and looking up at the sun,
she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time!
My son will be here directly, and
I am not ready for him." And rising to
her feet, she hurried into the house, made
the fire, set the meat and vegetables to
cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her
son arrived the meal was on the table.

"How a little sleep does refresh one,"
she said to herself, as she was bustling
about. She was a woman of very vigorous
constitution, and at seventy had
been a great deal stronger and more
active than her son was at that age.
The moment Old Pipes saw his mother,
he knew that the Dryad had been there;
but, while he felt as happy as a king, he
was too wise to say anything about her.

"It is astonishing how well I feel
to-day," said his mother; "and either
my hearing has improved or you speak
much more plainly than you have done
of late."

The summer days went on and passed
away, the leaves were falling from the
trees, and the air was becoming cold.

"Nature has ceased to be lovely,"
said the Dryad, "and the night winds
chill me. It is time for me to go back
into my comfortable quarters in the
great oak. But first I must pay another
visit to the cottage of Old Pipes."

She found the piper and his mother
sitting side by side on the rock in front
of the door. The cattle were not to
go to the mountain any more that
season, and he was piping them down
for the last time. Loud and merrily
sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down
the mountain-side came the cattle, the
cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by
those not quite so easy, and the goats
by the most difficult ones among the
rocks; while from the great oak tree were
heard the echoes of the cheerful music.

"How happy they look, sitting there
together," said the Dryad; "and I
don't believe it will do them a bit of
harm to be still younger." And moving
quietly up behind them, she first kissed
Old Pipes on his cheek and then kissed
his mother.

Old Pipes, who had stopped playing,
knew what it was, but he did not move,
and said nothing. His mother, thinking
that her son had kissed her, turned
to him with a smile and kissed him in
return. And then she arose and went
into the cottage, a vigorous woman of
sixty, followed by her son, erect and
happy, and twenty years younger than
herself.

The Dryad sped away to the woods,
shrugging her shoulders as she felt the
cool evening wind.

When she reached the great oak, she
turned the key and opened the door.
"Come out," said she to the Echo-dwarf,
who sat blinking within. "Winter is
coming on, and I want the comfortable
shelter of my tree for myself. The
cattle have come down from the mountain
for the last time this year, the
pipes will no longer sound, and you
can go to your rocks and have a holiday
until next spring."

Upon hearing these words the dwarf
skipped quickly out, and the Dryad
entered the tree and pulled the door
shut after her. "Now, then," she said
to herself, "he can break off the key if
he likes. It does not matter to me.[245]
Another will grow out next spring.
And although the good piper made me
no promise, I know that when the
warm days arrive next year, he will
come and let me out again."

The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break
the key of the tree. He was too happy
to be released to think of anything else,
and he hastened as fast as he could to
his home on the rocky hill-side.

The Dryad was not mistaken when she
trusted in the piper. When the warm
days came again he went to the oak
tree to let her out. But, to his sorrow
and surprise, he found the great tree
lying upon the ground. A winter storm
had blown it down, and it lay with its
trunk shattered and split. And what
became of the Dryad no one ever knew.

John Ruskin (1819-1900), the most eloquent
of English prose writers, was much interested
in the question of literature for both
grown-ups and children. He edited a reissue
of Taylor's translation of Grimms' Popular
Stories, issued "Dame Wiggins of Lee and
Her Seven Wonderful Cats" (see No. 143),
and wrote that masterpiece among modern
stories for children, The King of the Golden
River. Its fine idealism, splendidly imagined
structure, wonderful word-paintings,
and perfect English all combine to justify
the high place assigned to it. Ruskin wrote
the story in 1841, at a "couple of sittings,"
though it was not published until ten years
later. Speaking of it later in life, he said
that it "was written to amuse a little girl;
and being a fairly good imitation of Grimm
and Dickens, mixed with a little true
Alpine feeling of my own, it has been rightly
pleasing to nice children, and good for them.
But it is totally valueless, for all that. I
can no more write a story than compose
a picture." The final statement may be
taken for what it is worth, written as it
was at a time of disillusionment. The
first part of Ruskin's analysis is certainly
true and has been thus expanded by his
biographer, Sir E. T. Cook: "The grotesque
and the German setting of the tale were
taken from Grimm; from Dickens it took
its tone of pervading kindliness and geniality.
The Alpine ecstasy and the eager
pressing of the moral were Ruskin's own;
and so also is the style, delicately poised
between poetry and comedy."

THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER
OR
THE BLACK BROTHERS

JOHN RUSKIN

CHAPTER I

HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK
BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH BY
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE

In a secluded and mountainous part
of Stiria there was, in old time, a valley
of the most surprising and luxuriant
fertility. It was surrounded, on all
sides, by steep and rocky mountains,
rising into peaks, which were always
covered with snow, and from which a
number of torrents descended in constant
cataracts. One of these fell westward,
over the face of a crag so high,
that, when the sun had set to everything
else, and all below was darkness, his
beams still shone full upon this waterfall,
so that it looked like a shower of
gold. It was, therefore, called by the
people of the neighborhood, the Golden
River. It was strange that none of
these streams fell into the valley itself.
They all descended on the other side of
the mountains, and wound away through
broad plains and by populous cities.
But the clouds were drawn so constantly
to the snowy hills, and rested so softly[246]
in the circular hollow, that in time of
drought and heat, when all the country
round was burnt up, there was still rain
in the little valley; and its crops were
so heavy, and its hay so high, and its
apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and
its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet,
that it was a marvel to every one who
beheld it, and was commonly called the
Treasure Valley.

The whole of this little valley belonged
to three brothers, called Schwartz, Hans,
and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the
two elder brothers, were very ugly men,
with overhanging eyebrows and small
dull eyes, which were always half shut,
so that you couldn't see into them, and
always fancied they saw very far into
you. They lived by farming the Treasure
Valley, and very good farmers they
were. They killed everything that did
not pay for its eating. They shot the
blackbirds because they pecked the fruit;
and killed the hedgehogs, lest they
should suck the cows; they poisoned
the crickets for eating the crumbs in
the kitchen; and smothered the cicadas,
which used to sing all summer in the
lime trees. They worked their servants
without any wages, till they would not
work any more, and then quarreled with
them, and turned them out of doors
without paying them. It would have
been very odd if, with such a farm, and
such a system of farming, they hadn't
got very rich; and very rich they did
get. They generally contrived to keep
their corn by them till it was very dear,
and then sell it for twice its value; they
had heaps of gold lying about on their
floors, yet it was never known that they
had given so much as a penny or a crust
in charity; they never went to mass;
grumbled perpetually at paying tithes;
and were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding
a temper as to receive from all those
with whom they had any dealings the
nickname of the "Black Brothers."

The youngest brother, Gluck, was as
completely opposed, in both appearance
and character, to his seniors as could
possibly be imagined or desired. He
was not above twelve years old, fair,
blue-eyed, and kind in temper to every
living thing. He did not, of course,
agree particularly well with his brothers,
or rather, they did not agree with him.
He was usually appointed to the honorable
office of turnspit, when there was
anything to roast, which was not often;
for, to do the brothers justice, they were
hardly less sparing upon themselves
than upon other people. At other times
he used to clean the shoes, floors, and
sometimes the plates, occasionally getting
what was left on them, by way of
encouragement, and a wholesome quantity
of dry blows, by way of education.

Things went on in this manner for a
long time. At last came a very wet
summer, and everything went wrong in
the country around. The hay had hardly
been got in, when the haystacks were
floated bodily down to the sea by an
inundation; the vines were cut to pieces
with the hail; the corn was all killed by
a black blight; only in the Treasure
Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had
rain when there was rain nowhere else,
so it had sun when there was sun nowhere
else. Everybody came to buy corn at
the farm, and went away pouring maledictions
on the Black Brothers. They
asked what they liked, and got it, except
from the poor people, who could only
beg, and several of whom were starved
at their very door, without the slightest
regard or notice.[247]

It was drawing towards winter, and
very cold weather, when one day the
two elder brothers had gone out, with
their usual warning to little Gluck, who
was left to mind the roast, that he was
to let nobody in, and give nothing out.
Gluck sat down quite close to the fire,
for it was raining very hard, and the
kitchen walls were by no means dry or
comfortable looking. He turned and
turned, and the roast got nice and brown.
"What a pity," thought Gluck, "my
brothers never ask anybody to dinner.
I'm sure, when they've got such a nice
piece of mutton as this, and nobody else
has got so much as a piece of dry bread,
it would do their hearts good to have
somebody to eat it with them."

Just as he spoke, there came a double
knock at the house door, yet heavy and
dull, as though the knocker had been tied
up—more like a puff than a knock.

"It must be the wind," said Gluck;
"nobody else would venture to knock
double knocks at our door."

No; it wasn't the wind; there it came
again very hard, and what was particularly
astounding, the knocker seemed to
be in a hurry, and not to be in the least
afraid of the consequences. Gluck went
to the window, opened it, and put his
head out to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary looking
little gentleman he had ever seen in his
life. He had a very large nose, slightly
brass-colored; his cheeks were very
round, and very red, and might have
warranted a supposition that he had
been blowing a refractory fire for the
last eight-and-forty hours; his eyes
twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes,
his mustaches curled twice round
like a corkscrew on each side of his
mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed
pepper-and-salt color, descended far over
his shoulders. He was about four-feet-six
in height, and wore a conical pointed
cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated
with a black feather some three feet long.
His doublet was prolonged behind into
something resembling a violent exaggeration
of what is now termed a "swallowtail,"
but was much obscured by the
swelling folds of an enormous black,
glossy-looking cloak, which must have
been very much too long in calm weather,
as the wind, whistling round the old
house, carried it clear out from the wearer's
shoulders to about four times his
own length.

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by
the singular appearance of his visitor,
that he remained fixed without uttering
a word, until the old gentleman,
having performed another, and a more
energetic concerto on the knocker, turned
round to look after his fly-away cloak.
In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's
little yellow head jammed in the window,
with its mouth and eyes very wide open
indeed.

"Hollo!" said the little gentleman,
"that's not the way to answer the door:
I'm wet; let me in!"

To do the little gentleman justice,
he was wet. His feather hung down
between his legs like a beaten puppy's
tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from
the ends of his mustaches the water
was running into his waistcoat pockets,
and out again like a mill stream.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck,
"I'm very sorry, but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir,—I can't
indeed; my brothers would beat me to
death, sir, if I thought of such a thing.
What do you want, sir?"[248]

"Want?" said the old gentleman,
petulantly. "I want fire, and shelter;
and there's your great fire there blazing,
crackling, and dancing on the walls, with
nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I
only want to warm myself."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so
long out of the window, that he began to
feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and
when he turned, and saw the beautiful
fire rustling and roaring, and throwing
long bright tongues up the chimney,
as if it were licking its chops at the
savory smell of the leg of mutton, his
heart melted within him that it should
be burning away for nothing. "He does
look very wet," said little Gluck; "I'll
just let him in for a quarter of an hour."
Round he went to the door, and opened
it; and as the little gentleman walked in,
there came a gust of wind through the
house that made the old chimneys totter.

"That's a good boy," said the little
gentleman. "Never mind your brothers.
I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing,"
said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till
they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman,
"I'm very sorry to hear that. How
long may I stay?"

Then the old gentleman walked into
the kitchen, and sat himself down on
the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated
up the chimney, for it was a
great deal too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there, sir," said
Gluck, and sat down again to turn the
mutton. But the old gentleman did not
dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping
among the cinders, and the fire
fizzed and sputtered, and began to look
very black and uncomfortable; never
was such a cloak; every fold in it ran
like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at
length, after watching the water spreading
in long, quicksilver-like streams over
the floor for a quarter of an hour; "mayn't
I take your cloak?"

"It'll take longer to do the mutton,
then," replied his visitor dryly.

Gluck was very much puzzled by the
behavior of his guest; it was such a
strange mixture of coolness and humility.
He turned away at the string meditatively
for another five minutes.

"That mutton looks very nice," said
the old gentleman at length. "Can't
you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old
gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat
yesterday nor to-day. They surely
couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a
tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart.
"They promised me one slice to-day,
sir," said he; "I can give you that, but
not a bit more."

"That's a good boy," said the old
gentleman again.

Then Gluck warmed a plate, and
sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I
do get beaten for it," thought he. Just
as he had cut a large slice out of the
mutton, there came a tremendous rap
at the door. The old gentleman jumped[249]
off the hob, as if it had suddenly become
inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the
slice into the mutton again, with desperate
efforts at exactitude, and ran to open
the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in
the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he
walked in, throwing his umbrella in
Gluck's face. "Ay! what for, indeed,
you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering
an educational box on the ear,
as he followed his brother into the
kitchen.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz when
he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman,
who had taken his cap off and was
standing in the middle of the kitchen,
bowing with the utmost possible velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching
up a rolling-pin, and turning to
Gluck with a fierce frown.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said
Gluck in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly,
"he was so very wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on
Gluck's head; but, at the instant, the
old gentleman interposed his conical
cap, on which it crashed with a shock
that shook the water out of it all over the
room. What was very odd, the rolling
pin no sooner touched the cap, than it
flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning
like a straw in a high wind, and fell into
the corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded
Schwartz, turning upon him.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little
gentleman began very modestly, "and
I saw your fire through the window, and
begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again,
then," said Schwartz. "We've quite
enough water in our kitchen, without
making it a drying house."

"It is a cold day to turn an old man
out in, sir; look at my gray hairs."
They hung down to his shoulders, as I
told you before.

"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough
of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't
you spare me a bit of bread before I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do
you suppose we've nothing to do with
our bread but to give it to such red-nosed
fellows as you?"

"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans,
seizing him by the collar. But he had
no sooner touched the old gentleman's
collar, than away he went after the
rolling-pin, spinning round and round,
till he fell into the corner on the top of
it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and
ran at the old gentleman to turn him
out; but he also had hardly touched
him, when away he went after Hans
and the rolling-pin, and hit his head
against the wall as he tumbled into the
corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself
round with velocity in the opposite
direction; continued to spin until his
long cloak was all wound neatly about
him, clapped his cap on his head, very
much on one side (for it could not stand
upright without going through the ceiling),
gave an additional twist to his
corkscrew mustaches, and replied with
perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you[250]
a very good morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night I'll call again; after such a
refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced,
you will not be surprised if
that visit is the last I ever pay you."

"If ever I catch you here again,"
muttered Schwartz, coming, half frightened,
out of the corner—but, before he
could finish his sentence, the old gentleman
had shut the house door behind
him with a great bang: and there drove
past the window, at the same instant, a
wreath of ragged cloud that whirled
and rolled away down the valley in all
manner of shapes; turning over and
over in the air, and melting away at
last in a gush of rain.

"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr.
Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the mutton,
sir. If ever I catch you at such a
trick again—bless me, why the mutton's
been cut!"

"You promised me one slice, brother,
you know," said Gluck.

"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I
suppose, and going to catch all the gravy.
It'll be long before I promise you such
a thing again. Leave the room, sir;
and have the kindness to wait in the
coal-cellar till I call you."

Gluck left the room melancholy enough.
The brothers ate as much mutton as
they could, locked the rest in the cupboard,
and proceeded to get very drunk
after dinner.

Such a night as it was! Howling wind
and rushing rain, without intermission!
The brothers had just sense enough
left to put up all the shutters, and
double bar the door, before they went
to bed. They usually slept in the same
room. As the clock struck twelve,
they were both awakened by a tremendous
crash. Their door burst open with
a violence that shook the house from
top to bottom.

"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting
up in his bed.

"Only I," said the little gentleman.

The two brothers sat up on their
bolster and stared into the darkness.
The room was full of water, and by a
misty moonbeam, which found its way
through a hole in the shutter, they could
see in the midst of it an enormous foam
globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and
down like a cork, on which, as on a most
luxurious cushion, reclined the little old
gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty
of room for it now, for the roof was off.

"Sorry to incommode you," said their
visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid your
beds are dampish; perhaps you had better
go to your brother's room; I've left the
ceiling on, there."

They required no second admonition,
but rushed into Gluck's room, wet
through, and in an agony of terror.

"You'll find my card on the kitchen
table," the old gentleman called after
them. "Remember, the last visit."

"Pray Heaven it may!" said Schwartz,
shuddering. And the foam globe disappeared.

Dawn came at last, and the two
brothers looked out of Gluck's little
window in the morning. The Treasure
Valley was one mass of ruin and desolation.
The inundation had swept away
trees, crops, and cattle, and left in their
stead a waste of red sand and gray mud.
The two brothers crept shivering and
horror-struck into the kitchen. The
water had gutted the whole first floor;
corn, money, almost every movable
thing had been swept away, and there
was left only a small white card on the
kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy[251]
long-legged letters, were engraved the
words:—

South-West Wind, Esquire.

CHAPTER II

OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS
AFTER THE VISIT OF SOUTH-WEST WIND,
ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE GLUCK HAD
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE KING
OF THE GOLDEN RIVER

South-West Wind, Esquire, was as
good as his word. After the momentous
visit above related, he entered the
Treasure Valley no more; and, what was
worse, he had so much influence with his
relations, the West Winds in general, and
used it so effectually, that they all
adopted a similar line of conduct. So
no rain fell in the valley from one year's
end to another. Though everything
remained green and flourishing in the
plains below, the inheritance of the Three
Brothers was a desert. What had once
been the richest soil in the kingdom, became
a shifting heap of red sand; and the
brothers, unable longer to contend with
the adverse skies, abandoned their valueless
patrimony in despair, to seek some
means of gaining a livelihood among the
cities and people of the plains. All their
money was gone, and they had nothing
left but some curious, old-fashioned
pieces of gold plates, the last remnants
of their ill-gotten wealth.

"Suppose we turn goldsmiths?" said
Schwartz to Hans, as they entered the
large city. "It is a good knave's trade;
we can put a great deal of copper into
the gold, without any one's finding it
out."

The thought was agreed to be a
very good one; they hired a furnace,
and turned goldsmiths. But two slight
circumstances affected their trade; the
first, that people did not approve of the
coppered gold; the second, that the two
elder brothers, whenever they had sold
anything, used to leave little Gluck to
mind the furnace, and go and drink out
the money in the ale-house next door.
So they melted all their gold, without
making money enough to buy more, and
were at last reduced to one large drinking
mug, which an uncle of his had given
to little Gluck, and which he was very
fond of, and would not have parted with
for the world; though he never drank
anything out of it but milk and water.
The mug was a very odd mug to look at.
The handle was formed of two wreaths
of flowing golden hair, so finely spun that
it looked more like silk than metal, and
these wreaths descended into, and mixed
with, a beard and whiskers of the same
exquisite workmanship, which surrounded
and decorated a very fierce little face, of
the reddest gold imaginable, right in the
front of the mug, with a pair of eyes in
it which seemed to command its whole
circumference. It was impossible to
drink out of the mug without being subjected
to an intense gaze out of the side
of these eyes; and Schwartz positively
averred that once, after emptying it,
full of Rhenish, seventeen times, he had
seen them wink! When it came to the
mug's turn to be made into spoons, it
half broke poor little Gluck's heart; but
the brothers only laughed at him, tossed
the mug into the melting-pot, and staggered
out to the ale-house; leaving him,
as usual, to pour the gold into bars,
when it was all ready.

When they were gone, Gluck took a
farewell look at his old friend in the
melting-pot. The flowing hair was all
gone; nothing remained but the red nose,[252]
and the sparkling eyes, which looked
more malicious than ever. "And no
wonder," thought Gluck, "after being
treated in that way." He sauntered
disconsolately to the window, and sat
himself down to catch the fresh evening
air, and escape the hot breath of the
furnace. Now this window commanded
a direct view of the range of mountains,
which, as I told you before, overhung the
Treasure Valley, and more especially of
the peak from which fell the Golden
River. It was just at the close of the
day, and when Gluck sat down at the
window, he saw the rocks of the mountain
tops, all crimson and purple with the
sunset; and there were bright tongues of
fiery cloud burning and quivering about
them; and the river, brighter than all,
fell, in a waving column of pure gold,
from precipice to precipice, with the
double arch of a broad purple rainbow
stretched across it, flushing and fading
alternately in the wreaths of spray.

"Ah!" said Gluck aloud, after he had
looked at it for a while, "if that river
were really all gold, what a nice thing it
would be."

"No, it wouldn't, Gluck," said a
clear metallic voice, close at his ear.

"Bless me! what's that?" exclaimed
Gluck, jumping up. There was nobody
there. He looked round the room, and
under the table, and a great many times
behind him, but there was certainly nobody
there, and he sat down again at
the window. This time he didn't speak,
but he couldn't help thinking again that
it would be very convenient if the river
were really all gold.

"Not at all, my boy," said the same
voice, louder than before.

"Bless me!" said Gluck again; "what
is that?" He looked again into all the
corners, and cupboards, and then began
turning round, and round, as fast as he
could in the middle of the room, thinking
there was somebody behind him, when
the same voice struck again on his ear.
It was singing now very merrily, "Lala-lira-la";
no words, only a soft running
effervescent melody, something like that
of a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked
out of the window. No, it was certainly
in the house. Upstairs, and downstairs.
No, it was certainly in that very
room, coming in quicker time, and clearer
notes, every moment. "Lala-lira-la."
All at once it struck Gluck that it sounded
louder near the furnace. He ran to the
opening, and looked in; yes, he saw right,
it seemed to be coming, not only out of
the furnace, but out of the pot. He
uncovered it, and ran back in a great
fright, for the pot was certainly singing!
He stood in the farthest corner of the
room, with his hands up, and his mouth
open, for a minute or two, when the singing
stopped, and the voice became clear,
and pronunciative.

"Hollo!" said the voice.

Gluck made no answer.

"Hollo! Gluck, my boy," said the pot
again.

Gluck summoned all his energies,
walked straight up to the crucible, drew
it out of the furnace, and looked in. The
gold was all melted, and its surface as
smooth and polished as a river; but instead
of reflecting little Gluck's head, as
he looked in, he saw, meeting his glance
from beneath the gold, the red nose and
sharp eyes of his old friend of the mug,
a thousand times redder and sharper than
ever he had seen them in his life.

"Come, Gluck, my boy," said the
voice out of the pot again, "I'm all right;
pour me out."[253]

But Gluck was too much astonished to
do anything of the kind.

"Pour me out, I say," said the voice
rather gruffly.

Still Gluck couldn't move.

"Will you pour me out?" said the
voice passionately. "I'm too hot."

By a violent effort, Gluck recovered
the use of his limbs, took hold of the
crucible, and sloped it so as to pour out
the gold. But instead of a liquid stream,
there came out, first, a pair of pretty little
yellow legs, then some coat tails, then a
pair of arms stuck a-kimbo, and, finally,
the well-known head of his friend the
mug; all which articles, uniting as they
rolled out, stood up energetically on the
floor, in the shape of a little golden
dwarf, about a foot and a half high.

"That's right!" said the dwarf, stretching
out first his legs and then his arms,
and then shaking his head up and down,
and as far round as it would go, for five
minutes, without stopping; apparently
with the view of ascertaining if he were
quite correctly put together, while Gluck
stood contemplating him in speechless
amazement. He was dressed in a slashed
doublet of spun gold, so fine in its texture
that the prismatic colors gleamed over
it, as if on a surface of mother of pearl;
and, over this brilliant doublet, his hair
and beard fell full halfway to the ground
in waving curls so exquisitely delicate
that Gluck could hardly tell where they
ended; they seemed to melt into air.
The features of the face, however, were
by no means finished with the same
delicacy; they were rather coarse, slightly
inclining to coppery in complexion, and
indicative, in expression, of a very pertinacious
and intractable disposition in
their small proprietor. When the dwarf
had finished his self-examination, he
turned his small sharp eyes full on Gluck
and stared at him deliberately for a
minute or two. "No, it wouldn't, Gluck,
my boy," said the little man.

This was certainly rather an abrupt
and unconnected mode of commencing
conversation. It might indeed be supposed
to refer to the course of Gluck's
thoughts, which had first produced the
dwarf's observations out of the pot; but
whatever it referred to, Gluck had no
inclination to dispute the dictum.

"Wouldn't it, sir?" said Gluck, very
mildly and submissively indeed.

"No," said the dwarf, conclusively.
"No, it wouldn't." And with that, the
dwarf pulled his cap hard over his brows,
and took two turns, of three feet long,
up and down the room, lifting his legs
up very high, and setting them down very
hard. This pause gave time for Gluck
to collect his thoughts a little, and, seeing
no great reason to view his diminutive
visitor with dread, and feeling his curiosity
overcome his amazement, he ventured
on a question of peculiar delicacy.

"Pray, sir," said Gluck rather hesitatingly,
"were you my mug?"

On which the little man turned sharp
round, walked straight up to Gluck, and
drew himself up to his full height. "I,"
said the little man, "am the King of the
Golden River." Whereupon he turned
about again, and took two more turns,
some six feet long, in order to allow time
for the consternation which this announcement
produced in his auditor to
evaporate. After which, he again walked
up to Gluck and stood still, as if expecting
some comment on his communication.

Gluck determined to say something
at all events. "I hope your Majesty is
very well," said Gluck.[254]

"Listen!" said the little man, deigning
no reply to this polite inquiry. "I
am the King of what you mortals call the
Golden River. The shape you saw me
in, was owing to the malice of a stronger
king, from whose enchantments you
have this instant freed me. What I
have seen of you, and your conduct to
your wicked brothers, renders me willing
to serve you; therefore, attend to what
I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the
top of that mountain from which you see
the Golden River issue, and shall cast
into the stream at its source three drops
of holy water, for him, and for him only,
the river shall turn to gold. But no one
failing in his first, can succeed in a second
attempt; and if any one shall cast unholy
water into the river, it will overwhelm
him, and he will become a black stone."
So saying, the King of the Golden River
turned away and deliberately walked into
the center of the hottest flame of the furnace.
His figure became red, white, transparent,
dazzling—a blaze of intense light—rose,
trembled, and disappeared. The
King of the Golden River had evaporated.

HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION
TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE
PROSPERED THEREIN

The King of the Golden River had
hardly made the extraordinary exit, related
in the last chapter, before Hans
and Schwartz came roaring into the
house, very savagely drunk. The discovery
of the total loss of their last piece
of plate had the effect of sobering them
just enough to enable them to stand over
Gluck, beating him very steadily for a
quarter of an hour; at the expiration of
which period they dropped into a couple
of chairs, and requested to know what
he had got to say for himself. Gluck
told them his story, of which, of course,
they did not believe a word. They beat
him again, till their arms were tired, and
staggered to bed. In the morning, however,
the steadiness with which he adhered
to his story obtained him some
degree of credence; the immediate consequence
of which was, that the two
brothers, after wrangling a long time on
the knotty question, which of them should
try his fortune first, drew their swords
and began fighting. The noise of the
fray alarmed the neighbors, who, finding
they could not pacify the combatants,
sent for the constable.

Hans, on hearing this, contrived to
escape, and hid himself; but Schwartz
was taken before the magistrate, fined for
breaking the peace, and, having drunk
out his last penny the evening before,
was thrown into prison till he should pay.

When Hans heard this, he was much
delighted, and determined to set out immediately
for the Golden River. How
to get the holy water was the question.
He went to the priest, but the priest
could not give any holy water to so
abandoned a character. So Hans went
to vespers in the evening for the first
time in his life, and, under pretense of
crossing himself, stole a cupful, and returned
home in triumph.

Next morning he got up before the
sun rose, put the holy water into a strong
flask, and two bottles of wine and some
meat in a basket, slung them over his
back, took his alpine staff in his hand,
and set off for the mountains.[255]

On his way out of the town he had to
pass the prison, and as he looked in at
the windows, whom should he see but
Schwartz himself peeping out of the bars,
and looking very disconsolate.

"Good morning, brother," said Hans;
"have you any message for the King of
the Golden River?"

Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage,
and shook the bars with all his strength;
but Hans only laughed at him, and advising
him to make himself comfortable
till he came back again, shouldered his
basket, shook the bottle of holy water
in Schwartz's face till it frothed again,
and marched off in the highest spirits in
the world.

It was, indeed, a morning that might
have made any one happy, even with no
Golden River to seek for. Level lines
of dewy mist lay stretched along the
valley, out of which rose the massy
mountains—their lower cliffs in pale
gray shadow, hardly distinguishable from
the floating vapor, but gradually ascending
till they caught the sunlight, which
ran in sharp touches of ruddy color along
the angular crags, and pierced, in long
level rays, through their fringes of spear-like
pine. Far above, shot up red
splintered masses of castellated rock,
jagged and shivered into myriads of fantastic
forms, with here and there a streak
of sunlit snow, traced down their chasms
like a line of forked lightning; and, far
beyond, and far above all these, fainter
than the morning cloud, but purer and
changeless, slept, in the blue sky, the
utmost peaks of the eternal snow.

The Golden River, which sprang from
one of the lower and snowless elevations,
was now nearly in shadow; all but the
uppermost jets of spray, which rose like
slow smoke above the undulating line of
the cataract, and floated away in feeble
wreaths upon the morning wind.

On this object, and on this alone,
Hans's eyes and thoughts were fixed;
forgetting the distance he had to traverse,
he set off at an imprudent rate of walking,
which greatly exhausted him before he
had scaled the first range of the green
and low hills. He was, moreover, surprised,
on surmounting them, to find
that a large glacier, of whose existence,
notwithstanding his previous knowledge
of the mountains, he had been absolutely
ignorant, lay between him and the source
of the Golden River. He entered on it
with the boldness of a practised mountaineer;
yet he thought he had never
traversed so strange or so dangerous a
glacier in his life. The ice was excessively
slippery, and out of all its
chasms came wild sounds of gushing
water; not monotonous or low, but
changeful and loud, rising occasionally
into drifting passages of wild melody;
then breaking off into short melancholy
tones, or sudden shrieks, resembling
those of human voices in distress or pain.
The ice was broken into thousands of
confused shapes, but none, Hans thought,
like the ordinary forms of splintered ice.
There seemed a curious expression about
all their outlines—a perpetual resemblance
to living features, distorted and
scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows,
and lurid lights, played and floated about
and through the pale blue pinnacles,
dazzling and confusing the sight of the
traveler; while his ears grew dull and his
head giddy with the constant gush and
roar of the concealed waters. These
painful circumstances increased upon
him as he advanced; the ice crashed and
yawned into fresh chasms at his feet,
tottering spires nodded around him, and[256]
fell thundering across his path; and
though he had repeatedly faced these
dangers on the most terrific glaciers, and
in the wildest weather, it was with a new
and oppressive feeling of panic terror
that he leaped the last chasm, and flung
himself, exhausted and shuddering, on
the firm turf of the mountain.

He had been compelled to abandon his
basket of food, which became a perilous
encumbrance on the glacier, and had now
no means of refreshing himself but by
breaking off and eating some of the pieces
of ice. This, however, relieved his thirst;
an hour's repose recruited his hardy
frame, and with the indomitable spirit of
avarice, he resumed his laborious journey.

His way now lay straight up a ridge
of bare red rocks, without a blade of
grass to ease the foot, or a projecting
angle to afford an inch of shade from the
south sun. It was past noon, and the
rays beat intensely upon the steep path,
while the whole atmosphere was motionless
and penetrated with heat. Intense
thirst was soon added to the bodily
fatigue with which Hans was now
afflicted; glance after glance he cast on
the flask of water which hung at his belt.
"Three drops are enough," at last thought
he; "I may, at least, cool my lips with it."

He opened the flask, and was raising it
to his lips, when his eye fell on an object
lying on the rock beside him; he thought
it moved. It was a small dog, apparently
in the last agony of death from thirst.
Its tongue was out, its jaws dry, its limbs
extended lifelessly, and a swarm of black
ants were crawling about its lips and
throat. Its eye moved to the bottle
which Hans held in his hand. He raised
it, drank, spurned the animal with his
foot, and passed on. And he did not
know how it was, but he thought that
a strange shadow had suddenly come
across the blue sky.

The path became steeper and more
rugged every moment; and the high hill
air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to
throw his blood into a fever. The noise
of the hill cataracts sounded like mockery
in his ears; they were all distant, and his
thirst increased every moment. Another
hour passed, and he again looked down
to the flask at his side; it was half empty,
but there was much more than three
drops in it. He stopped to open it; and
again, as he did so, something moved in
the path above him. It was a fair child,
stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its
breast heaving with thirst, its eyes closed,
and its lips parched and burning. Hans
eyed it deliberately, drank, and passed on.
And a dark gray cloud came over the sun,
and long, snake-like shadows crept up
along the mountain sides. Hans struggled
on. The sun was sinking, but its descent
seemed to bring no coolness; the
leaden weight of the dead air pressed
upon his brow and heart, but the goal
was near. He saw the cataract of the
Golden River springing from the hillside,
scarcely five hundred feet above him.
He paused for a moment to breathe, and
sprang on to complete his task.

At this instant a faint cry fell on his
ear. He turned, and saw a gray-haired
old man extended on the rocks. His
eyes were sunk, his features deadly pale,
and gathered into an expression of
despair. "Water!" he stretched his
arms to Hans, and cried feebly, "Water!
I am dying."

"I have none," replied Hans; "thou
hast had thy share of life." He strode
over the prostrate body, and darted on.
And a flash of blue lightning rose out of
the East, shaped like a sword; it shook[257]
thrice over the whole heaven, and left
it dark with one heavy, impenetrable
shade. The sun was setting; it plunged
toward the horizon like a red-hot ball.

The roar of the Golden River rose on
Hans's ear. He stood at the brink of
the chasm through which it ran. Its
waves were filled with the red glory of
the sunset; they shook their crests like
tongues of fire, and flashes of bloody
light gleamed along their foam. Their
sound came mightier and mightier on his
senses; his brain grew giddy with the
prolonged thunder. Shuddering he drew
the flask from his girdle, and hurled it
into the center of the torrent. As he did
so, an icy chill shot through his limbs;
he staggered, shrieked, and fell. The
waters closed over his cry. And the
moaning of the river rose wildly into the
night, as it gushed over

The Black Stone.

CHAPTER IV

HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION
TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE
PROSPERED THEREIN

Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously
alone in the house for Hans's return.
Finding he did not come back, he was
terribly frightened and went and told
Schwartz in the prison, all that had
happened. Then Schwartz was very
much pleased, and said that Hans must
certainly have been turned into a black
stone, and he should have all the gold to
himself. But Gluck was very sorry, and
cried all night. When he got up in the
morning there was no bread in the house,
nor any money; so Gluck went and hired
himself to another goldsmith, and he
worked so hard, and so neatly, and so
long every day, that he soon got money
enough together to pay his brother's
fine, and he went and gave it all to
Schwartz, and Schwartz got out of prison.
Then Schwartz was quite pleased, and
said he should have some of the gold of the
river. But Gluck only begged he would
go and see what had become of Hans.

Now when Schwartz had heard that
Hans had stolen the holy water, he
thought to himself that such a proceeding
might not be considered altogether
correct by the King of the Golden
River, and determined to manage matters
better. So he took some more of Gluck's
money, and went to a bad priest, who
gave him some holy water very readily
for it. Then Schwartz was sure it was
all quite right. So Schwartz got up early
in the morning before the sun rose, and
took some bread and wine, in a basket,
and put his holy water in a flask, and set
off for the mountains. Like his brother,
he was much surprised at the sight of
the glacier, and had great difficulty in
crossing it, even after leaving his basket
behind him. The day was cloudless, but
not bright; there was a heavy purple
haze hanging over the sky, and the hills
looked lowering and gloomy. And as
Schwartz climbed the steep rock path,
the thirst came upon him, as it had upon
his brother, until he lifted his flask to
his lips to drink. Then he saw the fair
child lying near him on the rocks, and
it cried to him, and moaned for water.

"Water, indeed," said Schwartz; "I
haven't half enough for myself," and
passed on. And as he went he thought
the sunbeams grew more dim, and he
saw a low bank of black cloud rising out
of the West; and, when he had climbed
for another hour the thirst overcame
him again, and he would have drunk.[258]
Then he saw the old man lying before
him on the path, and heard him cry
out for water. "Water, indeed," said
Schwartz, "I haven't enough for myself,"
and on he went.

Then again the light seemed to fade
before his eyes, and he looked up, and,
behold, a mist, of the color of blood, had
come over the sun; and the bank of black
cloud had risen very high, and its edges
were tossing and tumbling like the waves
of the angry sea. And they cast long shadows,
which flickered over Schwartz's path.

Then Schwartz climbed for another
hour, and again his thirst returned; and
as he lifted his flask to his lips, he thought
he saw his brother Hans lying exhausted
on the path before him, and, as he gazed,
the figure stretched its arms to him, and
cried for water. "Ha, ha," laughed
Schwartz, "are you there? Remember the
prison bars, my boy. Water, indeed! do
you suppose I carried it all the way up
here for you?" And he strode over the
figure; yet, as he passed, he thought he
saw a strange expression of mockery
about its lips. And, when he had gone
a few yards farther, he looked back; but
the figure was not there.

And a sudden horror came over
Schwartz, he knew not why; but the
thirst for gold prevailed over his fear,
and he rushed on. And the bank of
black cloud rose to the zenith, and out
of it came bursts of spiry lightning, and
waves of darkness seemed to heave and
float between their flashes over the whole
heavens. And the sky where the sun
was setting was all level, and like a lake
of blood; and a strong wind came out of
that sky, tearing its crimson cloud into
fragments, and scattering them far into
the darkness. And when Schwartz stood
by the brink of the Golden River, its
waves were black, like thunder clouds,
but their foam was like fire; and the
roar of the waters below, and the thunder
above, met, as he cast the flask into the
stream. And, as he did so, the lightning
glared into his eyes, and the earth gave
way beneath him, and the waters closed
over his cry. And the moaning of the
river rose wildly into the night, as it
gushed over the

Two Black Stones.

CHAPTER V

HOW LITTLE GLUCK SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION
TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE
PROSPERED THEREIN; WITH OTHER
MATTERS OF INTEREST

When Gluck found that Schwartz did
not come back he was very sorry, and
did not know what to do. He had no
money, and was obliged to go and hire
himself again to the goldsmith, who
worked him very hard, and gave him very
little money. So, after a month or two,
Gluck grew tired, and made up his mind
to go and try his fortune with the Golden
River. "The little King looked very
kind," thought he. "I don't think he
will turn me into a black stone." So he
went to the priest, and the priest gave
him some holy water as soon as he asked
for it. Then Gluck took some bread in
his basket, and the bottle of water, and
set off very early for the mountains.

If the glacier had occasioned a great
deal of fatigue to his brothers, it was
twenty times worse for him, who was
neither so strong nor so practised on the
mountains. He had several bad falls,
lost his basket and bread, and was very
much frightened at the strange noises
under the ice. He lay a long time to
rest on the grass, after he had got over,[259]
and began to climb the hill just in the
hottest part of the day. When he had
climbed for an hour, he got dreadfully
thirsty, and was going to drink like his
brothers, when he saw an old man coming
down the path above him, looking very
feeble, and leaning on a staff. "My son,"
said the old man, "I am faint with thirst.
Give me some of that water." Then
Gluck looked at him, and when he saw
that he was pale and weary, he gave him
the water; "Only pray don't drink it all,"
said Gluck. But the old man drank a
great deal, and gave him back the bottle
two-thirds empty. Then he bade him
good speed, and Gluck went on again
merrily. And the path became easier
to his feet, and two or three blades of
grass appeared upon it, and some grasshoppers
began singing on the bank beside
it; and Gluck thought he had never
heard such merry singing.

Then he went on for another hour, and
the thirst increased on him so that he
thought he should be forced to drink.
But, as he raised the flask, he saw a
little child lying panting by the road-side,
and it cried out piteously for water.
Then Gluck struggled with himself, and
determined to bear the thirst a little
longer; and he put the bottle to the child's
lips, and it drank it all but a few drops.
Then it smiled on him, and got up and
ran down the hill; and Gluck looked
after it, till it became as small as a little
star, and then turned and began climbing
again. And then there were all kinds of
sweet flowers growing on the rocks, bright
green moss with pale pink starry flowers,
and soft belled gentians, more blue than
the sky at its deepest, and pure white
transparent lilies. And crimson and
purple butterflies darted hither and
thither, and the sky sent down such pure
light that Gluck had never felt so happy
in his life.

Yet, when he had climbed for another
hour, his thirst became intolerable again;
and, when he looked at his bottle, he
saw that there were only five or six drops
left in it, and he could not venture to
drink. And, as he was hanging the flask
to his belt again, he saw a little dog lying
on the rocks, gasping for breath—just
as Hans had seen it on the day of his
ascent. And Gluck stopped and looked
at it, and then at the Golden River, not
five hundred yards above him; and he
thought of the dwarf's words, "that no
one could succeed, except in his first
attempt"; and he tried to pass the dog,
but it whined piteously, and Gluck
stopped again. "Poor beastie," said
Gluck, "it'll be dead when I come down
again, if I don't help it." Then he
looked closer and closer at it, and its
eye turned on him so mournfully that
he could not stand it. "Confound the
King and his gold, too," said Gluck; and
he opened the flask, and poured all the
water into the dog's mouth.

The dog sprang up and stood on its
hind legs. Its tail disappeared, its ears
became long, longer, silky, golden; its nose
became very red, its eyes became very
twinkling; in three seconds the dog was
gone, and before Gluck stood his old acquaintance,
the King of the Golden River.

"Thank you," said the monarch; "but
don't be frightened, it's all right"; for
Gluck showed manifest symptoms of
consternation at this unlooked-for reply
to his last observation. "Why didn't
you come before," continued the dwarf,
"instead of sending me those rascally
brothers of yours, for me to have the
trouble of turning into stones? Very
hard stones they make, too."[260]

"Oh, dear me!" said Gluck, "have you
really been so cruel?"

"Cruel!" said the dwarf: "they poured
unholy water into my stream; do you
suppose I'm going to allow that?"

"Why," said Gluck, "I am sure, sir—your
Majesty, I mean,—they got the
water out of the church font."

"Very probably," replied the dwarf;
"but," and his countenance grew stern as
he spoke, "the water which has been
refused to the cry of the weary and dying
is unholy, though it had been blessed by
every saint in heaven; and the water
which is found in the vessel of mercy is
holy, though it had been defiled with
corpses."

So saying, the dwarf stooped and
plucked a lily that grew at his feet. On
its white leaves there hung three drops
of clear dew. And the dwarf shook
them into the flask which Gluck held in
his hand. "Cast these into the river,"
he said, "and descend on the other side
of the mountains into the Treasure
Valley, and so good speed."

As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf
became indistinct. The playing colors
of his robe formed themselves into a
prismatic mist of dewy light: he stood
for an instant veiled with them as with
the belt of a broad rainbow. The colors
grew faint, the mist rose into the air;
the monarch had evaporated.

And Gluck climbed to the brink of
the Golden River and its waves were
as clear as crystal, and as brilliant as
the sun. And, when he cast the three
drops of dew into the stream, there
opened where they fell, a small circular
whirlpool, into which the waters descended
with a musical noise.

Gluck stood watching it for some time,
very much disappointed, because not
only the river was not turned into gold
but its waters seemed much diminished
in quantity. Yet he obeyed his friend
the dwarf, and descended the other side
of the mountains, towards the Treasure
Valley; and, as he went, he thought he
heard the noise of water working its way
under the ground. And when he came in
sight of the Treasure Valley, behold, a
river, like the Golden River, was springing
from a new cleft of the rocks above it,
and was flowing in innumerable streams
among the dry heaps of red sand.

And, as Gluck gazed, fresh grass
sprang beside the new streams, and
creeping plants grew, and climbed among
the moistening soil. Young flowers
opened suddenly along the river sides,
as stars leap out when twilight is deepening,
and thickets of myrtle, and tendrils
of vine, cast lengthening shadows over
the valley as they grew. And thus the
Treasure Valley became a garden again,
and the inheritance, which had been
lost by cruelty, was regained by love.

And Gluck went and dwelt in the valley,
and the poor were never driven from
his door; so that his barns became full of
corn, and his house of treasure. And
for him, the river had, according to the
dwarf's promise, become a River of Gold.

And, to this day, the inhabitants of
the valley point out the place where the
three drops of holy dew were cast into
the stream, and trace the course of the
Golden River under the ground, until
it emerges in the Treasure Valley. And
at the top of the cataract of the Golden
River are still to be seen two black
stones, round which the waters howl
mournfully every day at sunset; and
these stones are still called by the people
of the valley

The best general collection from all fields, including both the folk fable and the modern literary
fable.

Babbitt, Ellen C., Jataka Tales Retold.

Dutton, Maude Barrows, The Tortoise and the Geese, and Other Fables of Bidpai.

Ramaswami Raju, P. V., Indian Folk Stories and Fables.

These three books are excellent for simplified versions of the eastern group. Those desiring
to get closer to the sources may refer to Cowell [ed.], The Jataka, or Stories of the Buddha's
Former Births; Rhys-Davids, Buddhist Birth Stories; Keith-Falconer, Bidpai's Fables.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

It is possible to piece out a very satisfactory account of the nature and history of the traditional
fable by looking up in any good encyclopedia the brief articles under the following heads:
Folklore, Fable, Parable, Apologue, Æsop, Demetrius of Phalerum, Babrias, Phaedrus, Avian,
Romulus, Maximus Planudes, Jataka, Bidpai, Panchatantra, Hitopadesa.

For a popular account of the whole philosophy of the apologue consult Newbigging, Fables and
Fabulists: Ancient and Modern.

For distinctions between various kinds of symbolic tales see Canby, The Short Story in English
(pp. 23 ff.); Trench, Notes on the Parables (Introduction); Smith, "The Fable and Kindred Forms,"
Journal of English and Germanic Philology, Vol. XIV, p. 519.

For origins and parallels read Müller, "On the Migration of Fables," Selected Essays, Vol. I
(reprinted in large part in Warner, Library of the World's Best Literature, Vol. XVIII); Clouston,
Popular Tales and Fictions, Vol. I, p. 266, and Vol. II, p. 432. The more general treatises on folklore
all touch on these problems.

For suggestions on the use of fables with children see MacClintock, Literature in the Elementary
School (chap. xi); Adler, Moral Instruction of Children (chaps. vii and viii); McMurry, Special
Method in Reading in the Grades (p. 70).

For a clear and helpful account of the French writers of fables, the most important modern
group, read Collins, La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists. Representative examples are given
in most excellent translation. The best complete translation of La Fontaine is by Elizur Wright;
of Krylov, in verse by I. H. Harrison, in prose by W. R. S. Ralston; of Yriarte, by R. Rockliffe.
Gay's complete collection may be found in any edition of his poems.

Satisfactory collections of proverbial sayings useful in finding expressions for the wisdom found
in fables are Christy, Proverbs, Maxims, and Phrases of All Ages; Hazlitt, English Proverbs and Proverbial
Phrases; Trench, Proverbs and Their Lessons.

A book of great suggestive value covering the whole field of the prose story is Fansler, Types
of Prose Narratives. It contains elaborate classifications, discussions and examples of each type,
and an extended bibliography. Pp. 83-127 deal with fables, parables, and allegories.

SECTION V: FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES

INTRODUCTORY

The character and value of fables. Some one has pointed out that there are two
kinds of ideals by which we are guided in life and that these ideals may be compared
to lighthouses and lanterns. By means of the lighthouse, remote and lofty, we are
able to lay a course and to know at any time whether we are headed in the right
direction. But while we are moving along a difficult road we need more immediate
illumination to avoid the mudholes and stumbling-places close at hand. We need
the humble lantern to show us where we may safely step.

Fables are lanterns by which our feet are guided. They embody the practical
rules for everyday uses, rules of prudence that have been tested and approved by untold
generations of travelers along the arduous road of life. They chart only minor dangers
and difficult places as a rule, but these are the ones with which we are always in
direct contact. Being honest because it is the "best policy" is not the highest
reason for honesty, but it is what a practical world has found to be best in practice.
Fables simply give us the "rules of the road," and these rules contribute greatly to
our convenience and safety. Such rules are the result of the common sense of man
working upon his everyday problems. To violate one of these practical rules is to
be a blunderer, and blundering is a subject for jest rather than bitter denouncement.
Hence the humorous and satirical note in fables.

The practical, self-made men of the world, who have done things and inspired
others to do them, have always placed great emphasis upon common-sense ideals.
Benjamin Franklin, by his Poor Richard's Almanac, kept the incentives to industry and
thrift before a people who needed to practice these everyday rules if they were to
conquer an unwilling wilderness. So well did he do his work that after nearly two
hundred years we are still quoting his pithy sayings. It may be that his proverbs
were all borrowed, but the rules of the road are not matters for constant experiment.
Again, no account of Abraham Lincoln can omit his use of Æsop or of Æsop-like stories
to enforce his ideas. His homely stories were so "pat" that there was nothing left
for the opposition to say. Only one who grasps the heart of a problem can use concrete
illustrations with such effect.

No one really questions the truths enforced by the more familiar fables. But
since these teachings are so commonplace and obvious, they cannot be impressed
upon us by mere repetition of the teachings as such. To secure the emphasis needed
the world gradually evolved a body of striking stories and proverbs by which the
standing rules of everyday life are displayed in terms that cling like burrs. "The
peculiar value of the fable," says Dr. Adler, "is that they are instantaneous photographs,
which reproduce, as it were, in a single flash of light, some one aspect of human
nature, and which, excluding everything else, permit the entire attention to be fixed
on that one."[264]

Æsop and Bidpai. The type of fable in mind in the above account is that
known as the Æsopic, a brief beast-story in which the characters are, as a rule, conventionalized
animals, and which points out some practical moral. The fox may
represent crafty people, the ass may represent stupid people, the wind may represent
boisterous people, the tortoise may represent plodding people who "keep everlastingly
at it." When human beings are introduced, such as the Shepherd Boy, or
Androcles, or the Travelers, or the Milkmaid, they are as wholly conventionalized
as the animals and there is never any doubt as to their motives. Æsop, if he ever
existed at all, is said to have been a Greek slave of the sixth century b.c., very
ugly and clever, who used fables orally for political purposes and succeeded in gaining
his freedom and a high position. Later writers, among them Demetrius of
Phalerum about 300 b.c. and Phaedrus about 30 a.d., made versions of fables
ascribed to Æsop. Many writers in the Middle Ages brought together increasing
numbers of fables under Æsop's name and enlarged upon the few traditional facts
in Herodotus about Æsop himself until several hundred fables and an elaborate
biography of the supposed author were in existence. Joseph Jacobs said he had
counted as many as 700 different fables going under Æsop's name. The number
included in a present-day book of Æsop usually varies from 200 to 350. Another
name associated with the making of fables is that of Bidpai (or Pilpay), said to have
been a philosopher attached to the court of some oriental king. Bidpai, a name
which means "head scholar," is a more shadowy figure even than Æsop. What we
can be sure of is that there were two centers, Greece and India, from which fables
were diffused. Whether they all came originally from a single source, and, if so,
what that source was, are questions still debated by scholars.

Modern fabulists. Modern fables are no more possible than a new Mother
Goose or a new fairy story. For modern times the method of the fable is "at once
too simple and too roundabout. Too roundabout; for the truths we have to tell
we prefer to speak out directly and not by way of allegory. And the truths the
fable has to teach are too simple to correspond to the facts in our complex civilization."
No modern fabulist has duplicated in his field the success of Hans Christian Andersen
in the field of the nursery story. A few fables from La Fontaine, a few from Krylov,
one or two each from Gay, Cowper, Yriarte, and Lessing may be used to good advantage
with children. The general broadening of literary variety has, of course, given
us in recent times many valuable stories of the symbolistic kind. Suggestive parable-like
or allegorical stories, such as a few of Hawthorne's in Twice Told Tales and Mosses
from an Old Manse, or a few of Tolstoy's short tales, are simple enough for children.

The use of fables in school. Not all fables are good for educational purposes.
There is, however, plenty of room for choice, and those that present points of view no
longer accepted by the modern world should be eliminated from the list. Objections
based on the unreality of the fables, their "unnatural natural history," are hardly
valid. Rousseau's elimination of fables from his scheme of education in Emile is
based on this objection and on the further point that the child will often sympathize
with the wrong character in the story, thus going astray in the moral lesson. Other
objectors down to the present day simply echo Rousseau. Such a view does little[265]
justice to the child's natural sense of values. He is certain to see that the Frog
is foolish in competing with the Ox in size, and certain to recognize the common sense
of the Country Mouse. He will no more be deceived by a fable than he will by the
painted clown in a circus.

The oral method of presentation is the ideal one. Tell the story in as vivid a
form as possible. In the earlier grades the interest in the story may be a sufficient
end, but almost from the beginning children will see the lesson intended. They will
catch the phrases that have come from fables into our everyday speech. Thus,
"sour grapes," "dog in the manger," "to blow hot and cold," "to kill the goose that
lays the golden eggs," "to cry 'Wolf!'" will take on more significant meanings. If
some familiar proverb goes hand in hand with the story, it will help the point to take
fast hold in the mind. Applications of the fable to real events should be encouraged.
That is what fables were made for and that is where their chief value for us is still
manifest. Only a short time need be spent on any one fable, but every opportunity
should be taken to call up and apply the fables already learned. For they are not
merely for passing amusement, nor is their value confined to childhood. Listen to
John Locke, one of the "hardest-headed" of philosophers: "As soon as a child has
learned to read, it is desirable to place in his hands pleasant books, suited to his
capacity, wherein the entertainment that he finds might draw him on, and reward
his pains in reading; and yet not such as should fill his head with perfectly useless
trumpery, or lay the principles of vice and folly. To this purpose I think Æsop's
Fables the best, which being stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet
afford useful reflections to a grown man, and if his memory retain them all his life
after, he will not repent to find them there, amongst his manly thoughts and serious
business."[266]

The best Æsop collection for teachers and
pupils alike is The Fables of Æsop, edited
by Joseph Jacobs. It contains eighty-two
selected fables, including those that are
most familiar and most valuable for children.
The versions are standards of what
such retellings should be, and may well
serve as models for teachers in their presentation
of other short symbolic stories.
The introduction, "A Short History of the
Æsopic Fable," and the notes at the end
of the book contain, in concise form, all
the practical information needed. The
text of the Jacobs versions was the one
selected for reproduction in Dr. Eliot's
Harvard Classics. Nos. 205, 206, 207, 208,
209, 213, and 233 in the following group
are by Mr. Jacobs. The other Æsopic
fables given are from various collections of
the traditional versions. Almost any of the
many reprints called Æsop are satisfactory
for fables not found in Jacobs. Perhaps
the one most common in recent times is
that made by Thomas James in 1848,
which had the good fortune to be illustrated
by Tenniel. The versions are brief
and not overloaded with editorial "filling."

THE SHEPHERD'S BOY

There was once a young Shepherd Boy
who tended his sheep at the foot of a
mountain near a dark forest. It was
rather lonely for him all day, so he
thought upon a plan by which he could
get a little company and some excitement.
He rushed down towards the village calling
out "Wolf! Wolf!" and the villagers
came out to meet him, and some of them
stopped with him for a considerable
time. This pleased the boy so much
that a few days afterwards he tried the
same trick, and again the villagers came
to his help. But shortly after this a
Wolf actually did come out from the
forest, and began to worry the sheep,
and the boy of course cried out "Wolf!
Wolf!" still louder than before. But
this time the villagers, who had been
fooled twice before, thought the boy was
again deceiving them, and nobody stirred
to come to his help. So the Wolf made
a good meal off the boy's flock, and when
the boy complained, the wise man of the
village said:

THE LION AND THE MOUSE

Once when a Lion was asleep a little
Mouse began running up and down upon
him; this soon wakened the Lion, who
placed his huge paw upon him and
opened his big jaws to swallow him.
"Pardon, O King," cried the little
Mouse; "forgive me this time; I shall
never forget it. Who knows but what I
may be able to do you a good turn some
of these days?" The Lion was so tickled
at the idea of the Mouse being able to
help him, that he lifted up his paw and
let him go. Some time after the Lion
was caught in a trap, and the hunters,
who desired to carry him alive to the
King, tied him to a tree while they went
in search of a wagon to carry him on.
Just then the little Mouse happened to
pass by, and seeing the sad plight in
which the Lion was, went up to him
and soon gnawed away the ropes that
bound the King of the Beasts. "Was
I not right?" said the little Mouse.

THE CROW AND THE
PITCHER

A Crow, half-dead with thirst, came
upon a Pitcher which had once been full[267]
of water; but when the Crow put its
beak into the mouth of the Pitcher he
found that only very little water was
left in it, and that he could not reach
far enough down to get at it. He tried
and he tried, but at last had to give up
in despair. Then a thought came to
him, and he took a pebble and dropped
it into the Pitcher. Then he took
another pebble and dropped it into the
Pitcher. Then he took another pebble
and dropped that into the Pitcher.
Then he took another pebble and dropped
that into the Pitcher. Then he took
another pebble and dropped that into
the Pitcher. Then he took another
pebble and dropped that into the Pitcher.
At last, at last, he saw the water mount
up near him; and after casting in a few
more pebbles he was able to quench his
thirst and save his life.

THE FROG AND THE OX

"Oh, Father," said a little Frog to the
big one sitting by the side of a pool,
"I have seen such a terrible monster!
It was as big as a mountain, with horns
on its head, and a long tail, and it had
hoofs divided in two."

"Tush, child, tush," said the old
Frog, "that was only Farmer White's
Ox. It isn't so big either; he may be
a little bit taller than I, but I could
easily make myself quite as broad; just
you see." So he blew himself out, and
blew himself out, and blew himself out.
"Was he as big as that?" asked he.

"Oh, much bigger than that," said
the young Frog.

Again the old one blew himself out,
and asked the young one if the Ox was
as big as that.

"Bigger, Father, bigger," was the reply.

So the Frog took a deep breath, and
blew and blew and blew, and swelled
and swelled and swelled. And then he
said: "I'm sure the Ox is not as big
as—" But at this moment he burst.

THE FROGS DESIRING
A KING

Frogs were living as happy as could
be in a marshy swamp that just suited
them; they went splashing about, caring
for nobody and nobody troubling with
them. But some of them thought that
this was not right, that they should have
a king and a proper constitution, so
they determined to send up a petition
to Jove to give them what they wanted.
"Mighty Jove," they cried, "send unto
us a king that will rule over us and keep
us in order." Jove laughed at their
croaking, and threw down into the
swamp a huge Log, which came down—kersplash—into
the water. The Frogs
were frightened out of their lives by the
commotion made in their midst, and all
rushed to the bank to look at the horrible
monster; but after a time, seeing
that it did not move, one or two of the
boldest of them ventured out towards
the Log, and even dared to touch it;
still it did not move. Then the greatest
hero of the Frogs jumped upon the Log
and commenced dancing up and down
upon it; thereupon all the Frogs came
and did the same; and for some time
the Frogs went about their business every
day without taking the slightest notice
of their new King Log lying in their
midst. But this did not suit them, so
they sent another petition to Jove, and[268]
said to him: "We want a real king; one
that will really rule over us." Now this
made Jove angry, so he sent among them
a big Stork that soon set to work gobbling
them all up. Then the Frogs repented
when too late.

The following fable is found in the folklore
of many countries. Its lesson of consolation
for those who are not blessed with
abundance of worldly goods may account
for its widespread popularity. Independence
and freedom from fear have advantages
that make up for poorer fare.

THE FIELD MOUSE AND
THE TOWN MOUSE

A Field Mouse had a friend who lived
in a house in town. Now the Town
Mouse was asked by the Field Mouse
to dine with him, and out he went and
sat down to a meal of corn and wheat.

"Do you know, my friend," said he,
"that you live a mere ant's life out here?
Why, I have all kinds of things at home.
Come, and enjoy them."

So the two set off for town, and there
the Town Mouse showed his beans and
meal, his dates, too, and his cheese and
fruit and honey. And as the Field Mouse
ate, drank, and was merry, he thought
how rich his friend was, and how poor
he was.

But as they ate, a man all at once
opened the door, and the Mice were in
such a fear that they ran into a crack.

Then, when they would eat some nice
figs, in came a maid to get a pot of honey
or a bit of cheese; and when they saw
her, they hid in a hole.

Then the Field Mouse would eat no
more, but said to the Town Mouse,
"Do as you like, my good friend; eat
all you want and have your fill of good
things, but you will be always in fear of
your life. As for me, poor Mouse, who
have only corn and wheat, I will live
on at home in no fear of any one."

The most famous use of this fable in literature
is found in the Satires of the great Roman
poet, Horace (b.c. 65-8). He is regarded
as one of the most polished of writers,
and the ancient world's most truthful
painter of social life and manners. Horace
had a country seat among the Sabine hills
to which he could retire from the worries
and distractions of the world. His delight
in his Sabine farm is shown clearly in his
handling of the story. The passage is a
part of Book II, Satire 6, and is in Conington's
translation. Some well-known
appearances of this same fable in English
poetry may be found in Prior and Montagu's
City Mouse and Country Mouse and in
Pope's Imitations of Horace.

THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND
THE TOWN MOUSE

HORACE

One day a country mouse in his poor home
Received an ancient friend, a mouse from Rome.
The host, though close and careful, to a guest
Could open still; so now he did his best.
He spares not oats or vetches; in his chaps
Raisins he brings, and nibbled bacon-scraps,
Hoping by varied dainties to entice
His town-bred guest, so delicate and nice.
Who condescended graciously to touch
Thing after thing, but never would take much,
While he, the owner of the mansion, sate
On threshed-out straw, and spelt and darnels ate.
At length the town mouse cries, "I wonder how
You can live here, friend, on this hill's rough brow!
Take my advice, and leave these ups and downs,
This hill and dale, for humankind and towns.
Come, now, go home with me; remember, all
Who live on earth are mortal, great and small.
Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may;
With life so short, 'twere wrong to lose a day."
This reasoning made the rustic's head turn round;
Forth from his hole he issues with a bound,
And they two make together for their mark,
In hopes to reach the city during dark.
The midnight sky was bending over all,
When they set foot within a stately hall,
Where couches of wrought ivory had been spread
With gorgeous coverlets of Tyrian red,
And viands piled up high in baskets lay,
The relics of a feast of yesterday.
The town mouse does the honors, lays his guest
At ease upon a couch with crimson dressed,
Then nimbly moves in character of host,
And offers in succession boiled and roast;
Nay, like a well-trained slave, each wish prevents,
And tastes before the titbits he presents.
The guest, rejoicing in his altered fare,
Assumes in turn a genial diner's air,
When, hark, a sudden banging of the door!
Each from his couch is tumbled on the floor.
Half dead, they scurry round the room, poor things,
While the whole house with barking mastiffs rings.
Then says the rustic, "It may do for you,
This life, but I don't like it; so, adieu.
Give me my hole, secure from all alarms;
I'll prove that tares and vetches still have charms."

The following is the Androcles story as retold
by Jacobs. Scholars think this fable is
clearly oriental in its origin, constituting
as it does a sort of appeal to tyrannical
rulers for leniency toward their subjects.

ANDROCLES

A Slave named Androcles once escaped
from his master and fled to the forest.
As he was wandering about there he[270]
came upon a Lion lying down moaning
and groaning. At first he turned to flee,
but finding that the Lion did not pursue
him, he turned back and went up to
him. As he came near, the Lion put
out his paw, which was all swollen and
bleeding, and Androcles found that a
huge thorn had got into it, and was
causing all the pain. He pulled out the
thorn and bound up the paw of the Lion,
who was soon able to rise and lick the
hand of Androcles like a dog. Then the
Lion took Androcles to his cave, and
every day used to bring him meat from
which to live. But shortly afterwards
both Androcles and the Lion were captured,
and the slave was sentenced to
be thrown to the Lion, after the latter
had been kept without food for several
days. The Emperor and all his Court
came to see the spectacle, and Androcles
was led out into the middle of the arena.
Soon the Lion was let loose from his den,
and rushed bounding and roaring towards
his victim. But as soon as he came near
to Androcles he recognized his friend, and
fawned upon him, and licked his hands
like a friendly dog. The Emperor, surprised
at this, summoned Androcles to
him, who told him the whole story.
Whereupon the slave was pardoned and
freed, and the Lion let loose to his
native forest.

The preceding fable is here given in the form
used in Thomas Day's very famous, but
probably little read, History of Sandford
and Merton. (See No. 380.) Day's use
of the story is probably responsible for its
modern popularity. Jacobs points out
that it dropped out of Æsop, although it
was in some of the medieval fable books.
A very similar tale, "Of the Remembrance
of Benefits," is in the Gesta Romanorum
(Tale 104). The most striking use of the
fable in modern literature is in George
Bernard Shaw's play Androcles. It will
be instructive to compare the force of
Day's rather heavy and slow telling of
the story with that of the concise, unelaborated
version by Jacobs.

ANDROCLES AND THE LION

THOMAS DAY

There was a certain slave named
Androcles, who was so ill-treated by his
master that his life became insupportable.
Finding no remedy for what he suffered,
he at length said to himself, "It is
better to die than to continue to live
in such hardships and misery as I am
obliged to suffer. I am determined therefore
to run away from my master. If I
am taken again, I know that I shall be
punished with a cruel death; but it is
better to die at once than to live in
misery. If I escape, I must betake myself
to deserts and woods, inhabited only
by wild beasts; but they cannot use me
more cruelly than I have been used by
my fellow-creatures. Therefore I will
rather trust myself with them than continue
to be a miserable slave."

Having formed this resolution, he took
an opportunity of leaving his master's
house, and hid himself in a thick forest,
which was at some miles' distance from
the city. But here the unhappy man
found that he had only escaped from one
kind of misery to experience another.
He wandered about all day through a
vast and trackless wood, where his flesh
was continually torn by thorns and
brambles. He grew hungry, but could
find no food in this dreary solitude.
At length he was ready to die with[271]
fatigue, and lay down in despair in a large
cavern which he found by accident.

This unfortunate man had not lain
long quiet in the cavern, before he heard
a dreadful noise, which seemed to be the
roar of some wild beast, and terrified
him very much. He started up with a
design to escape and had already reached
the mouth of the cave when he saw
coming towards him a lion of prodigious
size, who prevented any possibility
of retreat. The unfortunate man then
believed his destruction to be inevitable;
but, to his great astonishment, the beast
advanced towards him with a gentle pace,
without any mark of enmity or rage, and
uttered a kind of mournful voice, as if
he demanded the assistance of the man.

Androcles, who was naturally of a
resolute disposition, acquired courage
from this circumstance, to examine his
monstrous guest, who gave him sufficient
leisure for that purpose. He saw, as the
lion approached him, that he seemed to
limp upon one of his legs and that the
foot was extremely swelled as if it had
been wounded. Acquiring still more fortitude
from the gentle demeanor of the
beast, he advanced up to him and took
hold of the wounded paw, as a surgeon
would examine a patient. He then perceived
that a thorn of uncommon size
had penetrated the ball of the foot and
was the occasion of the swelling and
lameness he had observed. Androcles
found that the beast, far from resenting
this familiarity, received it with the
greatest gentleness and seemed to invite
him by his blandishments to proceed.
He therefore extracted the thorn, and,
pressing the swelling, discharged a considerable
quantity of matter, which had
been the cause of so much pain and
uneasiness.

As soon as the beast felt himself thus
relieved, he began to testify his joy and
gratitude by every expression within his
power. He jumped about like a wanton
spaniel, wagged his enormous tail, and
licked the feet and hands of his physician.
Nor was he contented with these demonstrations
of kindness; from this moment
Androcles became his guest; nor did the
lion ever sally forth in quest of prey without
bringing home the produce of his
chase and sharing it with his friend. In
this savage state of hospitality did the
man continue to live during the space of
several months. At length, wandering
unguardedly through the woods, he met
with a company of soldiers sent out to
apprehend him, and was by them taken
prisoner and conducted back to his master.
The laws of that country being very
severe against slaves, he was tried and
found guilty of having fled from his master,
and, as a punishment for his pretended
crime, he was sentenced to be
torn in pieces by a furious lion, kept
many days without food to inspire him
with additional rage.

When the destined moment arrived,
the unhappy man was exposed, unarmed,
in the midst of a spacious area, enclosed
on every side, round which many thousand
people were assembled to view the
mournful spectacle.

Presently a dreadful yell was heard,
which struck the spectators with horror;
and a monstrous lion rushed out of a den,
which was purposely set open, and darted
forward with erected mane, and flaming
eyes, and jaws that gaped like an open
sepulchre.—A mournful silence instantly
prevailed! All eyes were turned upon
the destined victim, whose destruction
now appeared inevitable. But the pity
of the multitude was soon converted into[272]
astonishment, when they beheld the lion,
instead of destroying his defenceless prey,
crouch submissively at his feet; fawn
upon him as a faithful dog would do
upon his master, and rejoice over him
as a mother that unexpectedly recovers
her offspring. The governor of the town,
who was present, then called out with a
loud voice and ordered Androcles to
explain to them this unintelligible mystery,
and how a savage beast of the
fiercest and most unpitying nature should
thus in a moment have forgotten his
innate disposition, and be converted into
a harmless and inoffensive animal.

Androcles then related to the assembly
every circumstance of his adventures in
the woods, and concluded by saying that
the very lion which now stood before them
had been his friend and entertainer in
the woods. All the persons present were
astonished and delighted with the story,
to find that even the fiercest beasts are
capable of being softened by gratitude and
moved by humanity; and they unanimously
joined to entreat for the pardon of
the unhappy man from the governor of
the place. This was immediately granted
to him, and he was also presented with
the lion, who had in this manner twice
saved the life of Androcles.

THE WIND AND THE SUN

A dispute once arose between the North
Wind and the Sun as to which was the
stronger of the two. Seeing a Traveler
on his way, they agreed to try which
could the sooner get his cloak off him.
The North Wind began, and sent a
furious blast, which, at the onset,
nearly tore the cloak from its fastenings;
but the Traveler, seizing the
garment with a firm grip, held it round
his body so tightly that Boreas spent
his remaining force in vain.

The Sun, dispelling the clouds that had
gathered, then darted his genial beams
on the Traveler's head. Growing faint
with the heat, the Man flung off his coat
and ran for protection to the nearest
shade.

The following brief fable has given us one
of the best known expressions in common
speech, "killing the goose that lays the
golden eggs." People who never heard of
Æsop know what that expression means.
It is easy to connect the fable with our
"get rich quick" craze. (Compare with
No. 254.)

THE GOOSE WITH THE
GOLDEN EGGS

A certain Man had a Goose that laid
him a golden egg every day. Being of
a covetous turn, he thought if he killed
his Goose he should come at once to the
source of his treasure. So he killed her
and cut her open, but great was his dismay
to find that her inside was in no
way different from that of any other
goose.

The most successful of modern literary fabulists
was the French poet Jean de la Fontaine
(1621-1695). A famous critic has
said that his fables delight the child with
their freshness and vividness, the student
of literature with their consummate art, and
the experienced man with their subtle reflections
on life and character. He drew
most of his stories from Æsop and other
sources. While he dressed the old fables in
the brilliant style of his own day, he still[273]
succeeded in being essentially simple and
direct. A few of his 240 fables may be
used to good effect with children, though
they have their main charm for the more
sophisticated older reader. (See Nos. 234,
234, and 241.) The best complete translation
is that made in 1841 by Elizur
Wright, an American scholar. The following
version is from his translation. Notice
that La Fontaine has changed the goose
to a hen.

THE HEN WITH THE
GOLDEN EGGS

LA FONTAINE

How avarice loseth all,By striving all to gain,
I need no witness callBut him whose thrifty hen,
As by the fable we are told,
Laid every day an egg of gold.
"She hath a treasure in her body,"
Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
He kills and opens—vexed to findAll things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.In these last changes of the moon,How often doth one seeMen made as poor as heBy force of getting rich too soon!

THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S
CLOTHING

A Wolf wrapped himself in the skin of
a Sheep and by that means got admission
into a sheep-fold, where he devoured
several of the young Lambs. The Shepherd,
however, soon found him out and
hung him up to a tree, still in his disguise.

Some other Shepherds, passing that
way, thought it was a Sheep hanging,
and cried to their friend, "What, brother!
is that the way you serve Sheep in this
part of the country?"

"No, friends," cried he, turning the
hanging body around so that they might
see what it was; "but it is the way to
serve Wolves, even though they be
dressed in Sheep's clothing."

THE HARE AND THE
TORTOISE

The Hare one day laughed at the Tortoise
for his short feet, slowness, and
awkwardness.

"Though you may be swift as the
wind," replied the Tortoise good-naturedly,
"I can beat you in a
race."

The Hare looked on the challenge as a
great joke, but consented to a trial of
speed, and the Fox was selected to act
as umpire and hold the stakes.

The rivals started, and the Hare, of
course, soon left the Tortoise far behind.
Having reached midway to the goal,
she began to play about, nibble the young
herbage, and amuse herself in many ways.
The day being warm, she even thought
she would take a little nap in a shady
spot, for she thought that if the Tortoise
should pass her while she slept, she could
easily overtake him again before he
reached the end.

The Hare, having overslept herself,
started up from her nap and was surprised
to find that the Tortoise was
nowhere in sight. Off she went at full
speed, but on reaching the winning-post,
found that the Tortoise was already there,
waiting for her arrival.

THE MILLER, HIS SON,
AND THEIR ASS

A Miller and his Son were driving their
Ass to a neighboring fair to sell him.
They had not gone far when they met
with a troop of women collected round a
well, talking and laughing.

"Look there," cried one of them, "did
you ever see such fellows, to be trudging
along the road on foot when they might
ride?"

The Miller, hearing this, quickly made
his Son mount the Ass, and continued to
walk along merrily by his side. Presently
they came up to a group of old men
in earnest debate.

"There," said one of them, "it proves
what I was saying. What respect is
shown to old age in these days? Do you
see that idle lad riding while his old father
has to walk? Get down, you young
scapegrace, and let the old man rest his
weary limbs."

Upon this, the Miller made his Son
dismount, and got up himself. In this
manner they had not proceeded far when
they met a company of women and
children.

"Why, you lazy old fellow," cried several
tongues at once, "how can you ride
upon the beast while that poor little lad
there can hardly keep pace by the side of
you?"

The good-natured Miller immediately
took up his Son behind him. They had
now almost reached the town.

"Pray, honest friend," said a citizen,
"is that Ass your own?"

"Yes," replied the old man.

"Oh, one would not have thought so,"
said the other, "by the way you load
him. Why, you two fellows are better
able to carry the poor beast than he
you."

"Anything to please you," said the
Miller; "we can but try."

So, alighting with his Son, they tied
the legs of the Ass together, and by the
help of a pole endeavored to carry him
on their shoulders over a bridge near the
entrance of the town. This entertaining
sight brought the people in crowds to
laugh at it, till the Ass, not liking the
noise nor the strange handling that he
was subject to, broke the cords that
bound him and, tumbling off the pole,
fell into the river. Upon this, the old
man, vexed and ashamed, made the best of
his way home again, convinced that by
trying to please everybody he had pleased
nobody, and lost his Ass into the bargain.

THE TRAVELERS AND
THE BEAR

Two Men, about to journey through a
forest, agreed to stand by each other in
any dangers that might befall. They
had not gone far before a savage Bear
rushed out from a thicket and stood in
their path. One of the Travelers, a
light, nimble fellow, got up into a tree.
The other, seeing that there was no
chance to defend himself single-handed,
fell flat on his face and held his breath.
The Bear came up and smelled at him,
and taking him for dead, went off again
into the wood. The Man in the tree
came down and, rejoining his companion,
asked him, with a sly smile, what was the
wonderful secret which he had seen the
Bear whisper into his ear.

"Why," replied the other, "he told
me to take care for the future and not[275]
to put any confidence in such cowardly
rascals as you are."